


Dress Up In You

by galinda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind Character, Bulimia, Cellist Castiel, Dean-Centric, Drag Queen Dean, Drag Queens, Eating Disorders, F/M, Family Drama, Hospitals, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Some Tags Are Not Mention To Not Spoil The Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galinda/pseuds/galinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a letter and ended with a slammed door and a plane ticket. </p><p>Over a year after a fall out with his younger brother, Dean Winchester gets a call about their father that forces the two back together, only this time the circumstances are much different. People have their own ways of coping, and some are more dangerous than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Second Skin

**Author's Note:**

> First of all thank you so much for reading this and let me warn you, this will be an emotional roller coaster. If you see a typo, please tell me and I'll fix it! 
> 
> I also live off of comments. I need them to survive. 
> 
> I also recommend listening to the songs mentioned while reading to make it more fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is officially a playlist for all the songs used in this fanfiction: http://8tracks.com/andywarwhore/dress-up-in-you

 

It started with a letter and ended with a slammed door and a plane ticket.

30, 40, 50 missed calls and he was gone. Law, he’d said. Saving people. The Kevin Durant of Stanford, ruling the court (house). 51 missed calls on a late night where the sun was hiding behind the horizon and the smell of stale brandy warmed him from head to toe. 52 ended with the robotic voice of _we are sorry, but this phone line has been cut off_ tearing into his chest.

Things were easy to get over when you smothered them with dope, PBR, tobacco, skin, donuts. Those things were easy to get over when you take a week off and lock yourself away in your bedroom until the itching feeling in your veins leaks out through the empty orbs that used to be emerald green. There are still _those_ things, but _those_ things couldn’t be willed away like those _things._

 _At what point does an apartment look lived in?_ he once wondered. But back then, there was someone to answer him.

Empty bottles scattered around on every other flat surface. Stacks of food wrappers gushed out of the kitchen trash and the greasy dishes in the sink rivaled Pisano. The living room rug had been crooked for months, piling up next to worn bongs and a stained couch. Kansas sunlight leaked into the bathroom through the shattered glass of call number 27, along with the occasional cockroaches or ladybugs that made their way to the stiff bed covers that hadn’t been used for actual sleep in weeks.

 _You have put yourself in it, I think._ that someone answered him.

Dean let out a long internal sigh as he guzzled mouthwash and spit into the kitchen sink, ignoring the familiar feeling of razors scraping his throat raw. He had another fourteen hours under a puke stained junk car probably crashed by teenagers too drunk to know what stop means. His only relief was that his eyes were already rimmed red and the faint smile of the Gas N’ Sip cashier didn’t faze him anymore.

 _You’re late again, boy._ He’d heard those words every day for the past two years. _Hurry and get home, stop pushing yourself_. He’d heard those too.

 

When you live as a shell of a former self you don’t remember, it’s easy to fall into routine. Wake up. Smoke. Eat and eat and eat. Work. Smoke. Kiss. Listen. Fuck. Kiss. Goodbye. Dance. Cry. Drink. Eat and eat and eat. Pills. Sleep. Scream. Sleep. Wake up. A hiccup in the routine turns into a choke, leaving you gasping for air until it’s over.

 _“Is this Dean Winchester?”_ The woman’s voice was timid, nearly a whisper. Everyone knows what a call at eleven at night means. All he wanted to ask how many people were attending the funeral. “My name is Kate and I... I got your number from John’s phone.” Dean swallows the mouthful of tagalongs in his mouth and mutters a meek response. “He got sick at work today and was brought to Lawrence County Hospital. He’s been asking for you.” She gave him the visiting hours and he hung up, fighting the urge to slam his phone into the wall. On the bright side, the cookies tasted the same coming back up.

 

“Hepatic failure has a multitude of symptoms, beginning with abdominal pain, just as Mr. Winchester has been experiencing, along with swelling. At work yesterday, he said he had been experiencing hand tremors and bloating. Ms. Milligan took him to the hospital after he relayed his symptoms to her, and so far we’ve only medicated him, but with the damage his record shows I wouldn’t be surprised if his doctor ordered a transplant.” The nurse’s words were just static in Dean’s head as he stared through the window, eyes locked on the dark figure lying in the bed. Even through the wall, he could feel his cold stare slicing into his skin like barbed wire. _What would your mother say about all this?_

A blonde woman with purple circles under her eyes and a fine line around the corners of her mouth smiles at Dean from John’s doorway. After the nurse finishes explaining the process, Dean waves her off and the woman approaches him and holds out her hand. He doesn’t shake it. With a frown, the woman breaks the silence. “You must be Dean. I can tell, you look like him.” Her voice is soft, like it had been on the phone. “My name is Kate Milligan, I called you last night. I wasn’t sure if you’d make it, considering the distance...”

Dean furrows his eyebrows and crosses his arms, closing himself in. “I live near that new pizzeria, about fifteen minutes out. It wasn’t a big deal to get here.”

Kate’s eyes widen and her frown creases down her face. “Oh, John hadn’t told me you had graduated already. My mistake. Although, Stanford is a prestigious school, he does talk about you a lot.”

Of course, why would John tell his latest blonde haired, blue-eyed beauty about the son he hadn’t spoken to in over a year? No, no one wants their bed partner to know that six nights a week their kid piles on four layers of false eyelashes and squeezes himself into a corset to get paid by the hour to dance to Madonna for strangers. It’s not exactly pillow talk. 

“That’s his other son. Not me.” Without another word, Dean walks away from the woman and down the hall, into the elevator, bedridden father forgotten.

 

He’d taken the night off, not knowing if he’d be identifying a body or not once he got to the hospital, so the first thing he does when he pushes down the gas pedal is head straight for the gas station. There’s a different cashier than the one he’s used to, one who doesn’t smile at him every time he walks in. It’s almost instinct; he already knows where everything he wants is.

Powdered donuts. Everyone’s first choice. They dissolve in your mouth, like heaven against your tongue. Pudding was an easy one, he didn’t even have to chew that. Gummy bears would be interesting, but Dean figured there’s a first time for everything. He’d have to make another stop at that new pizzeria he told that woman about and order a pie with extra 650. The area code for Palo Alto is 650. Dean knows this, because he’s dialed it exactly fifty-two times.

With a quick swipe, his heart picks its pace and suddenly everything is too loud and too quiet all at once and the gas station isn’t there anymore. His guts are going to stain the walls.

“My flight lands tomorrow afternoon and I need someone to pick me up. I’m staying at the Marriott.”

Dean remembers a time when they flew out of the atmosphere on their swing set and told themselves they’d one day be big enough to reach the top shelf in the kitchen to get to the cookies that tasted like gravel.

He should tell him to get a taxi.

“I’ll be there.”

He ends up throwing in an extra gallon of mint chocolate chip.

 

It’s the little things you notice. Like how his eyes still crinkle when he smiles, or how he lost the bangs he had before he left. He’s not a lanky kid anymore; he’d grown into being a lean, tall man you wouldn’t fight at a bar. The kind you’d avoid.

There are no words when he gets into the car, just the sound of a bass slowly strumming on the radio. It isn’t until they reach a stop light, that the silence is broken. “Turn left at the next light.” Sam says, his voice grew deeper with the length of his hair.

As he watches Sam stomp off into the hotel, Dean’s phone rings in his pocket. “Hey, Cas.” His chest clenches with guilt at the word. _Cas._

“Hello Dean. You haven’t come by yet.” The other man’s voice is gravelly, and it sends shivers down Dean’s spine like he’d entered Siberia. “Is everything alright?”

Dean fights back a sigh and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, sorry, I meant to call you but... Sam’s in town.” Call number 12 ended with broken bottles and missing work.

The silence from the other line feels like a slap. Dean imagines the way Cas’s eyebrows would furrow together, the lines around his mouth as he frowns. He imagines the blood that would spill from the tips of his fingers. “I hope he is well.” The voice doesn’t sound any different, but Dean knows he’s being sarcastic. “The door is open, if you do come over.”

“No, I... I’ll knock. What if someone else comes in? You wouldn’t be able to...” Dean regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth. It’s happened so many times before, but he never learns. Or maybe he does it on purpose, to create a reason to hate himself more.

“I am entirely capable of caring for myself Dean. I do not have a disability; I am just different than you.” Cas’ tone stings, like thousands of needles pressing into Dean’s skin. “I will leave the door unlocked, and you can lock it once you leave. I’m nearly finished with my audition piece” And he’d been nearly done the day before. And the day before that. And before that.

“I’m gonna stop at McDonalds on the way, you want anything?” He knows the answer already. Cas will tell him no, he doesn’t like fast food. Dean won’t get him anything, but he’ll tell the cashier he needs two of everything anyway. He’ll get home and shovel every single calorie into his mouth until he feels like he’s going to explode. Cas will pretend that through the thin apartment floors he doesn’t hear gagging and the toilet flushing. Dean will go upstairs, get his brains fucked out and then he’ll kiss Cas goodbye because no matter what was said on the phone, his audition piece is not done and he doesn’t want Dean to hear it. Dean will go downstairs and spend an hour and a half shaving, plastering on layers of makeup and silicone, then dance for a crowd of strangers.

“I do not like fast food, Dean.” Castiel says, the same way he says it every time. “Gabriel brought over leftover pasta from his restaurant. I will eat that.”

“Give me forty-five minutes and I’ll be there, Cas.” Dean says as he eyeballs the restaurant. It’s not busy, and he begins reading the prices for dollar menu and tries to remember how much cash he has in his wallet. The man on the other line dismisses him, presumably to continue slaving away on a piece he’d never finish.

It starts to build as soon as Dean places his order through the speaker. He didn’t call Cas back yesterday. Burger. He’s still not done working on that car in garage that he promised Bobby he’d fix. Burger. He still hasn’t cleaned up the broken window. Burger. His dad has a girlfriend who doesn’t know who he is. Fries. His dad is in the hospital and he didn’t call him first. Nuggets. Sam’s back. Big Mac.

He’s back in routine so why does it still feel like he’s choking?

 

As Dean turns the knob on the door and lets himself into Cas’ apartment he silently thanks God that the man is blind. He shouldn’t be thankful but he’s already going to hell and his cheeks make him look like a peach. Whatever note Cas was creating stops.

“Hello Dean.” He says, as he usually does, while placing his instrument down next to the only chair that’s in the room. Dean “lent” it to him two years ago because his first one got lost in the move. It’s also where Cas was holding onto the first time they kissed.

“Hey, Cas, how’s your song going?” Dean asks casually, as if the person standing right in front of him didn’t just listen to him cough his guts out into a dirty toilet. He shuts the door behind him and makes his way to the edge of the music stand, careful not to mess anything up.

Cas loosens his bow for most likely the first time since five a.m. and sighs. “I told you this yesterday, Dean, a song has lyrics. I am composing a piece.”

“I know.” Dean says, smug. He brushes his hand gently against the top of Cas’, staring into his pale blue eyes. “You also told me the day before.” The cellist shakes his head and cups Dean’s hand in between his. He leans in for a kiss, but Dean pulls his head back, still tasting the burning acid in his mouth.

Cas frowns and lets go, shuffling sideways towards the kitchen. “How is your brother?” Dean spots a needle and a rubber band on the kitchen counter and knows that Cas hasn’t just been shooting for answers.

“We spoke barely two words to each other before he buzzed off to his fancy five star hotel room.” Hamburgers look like beef stew when they come back up. His anger dissolves when Cas reaches a shaky hand up to cup his freckled cheek, his veins matching the shade of his eyes. His eyes are resting on the wall behind Dean, yet he still feels Cas’ heavy stare on his shoulders. Dean’s eyes are still bloodshot.

 

In the shower an hour later he washes off the vomit crusted on the bottom of his chin that Cas pretended not to notice.

As soon as he finishes drying his pale pink skin, he reaches for the glue stick on the counter, an instinct. He smears the purple substance over his eyebrows, smoothing them out to be covered. The piles of foundation and powder plastered onto his face cover up any remanence of kneeling over the toilet. Every thick layer of eyeliner smears away the swollen eyes, the dry tears that aren’t just from sticking a finger down his throat. After he paints his lips malevolent red and contours his cheeks into a sharp curve, it’s time for his pride and joy.

Five years ago, Dean would have rather drove himself off a bridge than be caught with makeup on his chest. But four beers and a YouTube marathon later, he discovered a hidden talent. Strategically, he begins brushing on the highlight powder first, then the darker shade under it in a circle pattern. Fifteen minutes and a blending brush that he would never admit he spent $100 on, he looks in the mirror at the apparent cleavage. With a smug smile, he continues his process, sucking in his waist until he can count his ribs and wrapping the corset around, tying it in the front.

Tucking has never been his favorite activity. He fights with the duct tape for a few minutes before he finally gets it in place where he’s comfortable enough to walk normally, but uncomfortable enough to make a straight guy flush. To finish the job, he pulls on tight fitting black spandex shorts. With a groan, he bends over and grabs his black, thigh high platform stilettos. Dean nearly breaks a sweat pulling them on, ending up on his back on the bed nearly rolling over himself.

From his top drawer, he pulls out a shiny black wig, split down the middle that frames his face. Quickly, he tucks his short hair into a wig cap and pulls on the black hair until it sits symmetrical on his head. The bright red, silk kimono hanging in the back of his closet finishes the look, killing Dean Winchester for the night. He looks in the mirror once more, sticking on fake nails in a matter of seconds, before grabbing his keys and heading out for the night.

 

Call number nineteen ended with a broken bottle and a sliced open hand. Cas heard the noise and made his way downstairs, calling Dean’s name. He couldn’t find the room number on the door. Dean opened it and rushed Cas inside, scolding him for wondering in the middle of the night with no cane. Cas scolded him back for the beer in his breath and the blood on the floor.

The lights in front of Dean were pitch black aside from a few blue ones lighting up the bar. A familiar synth chord fills his ears, and he takes a single deep breath before slowly stepping out from backstage. A single purple lamp shines above him, barely illuminating his figure. His back is turned to the audience but he still mouths the words, _“When I was very young, nothing made me happy.”_ As the song continues, he slowly turns around.

He starts bobbing his shoulders up and down to the beat when it picks up the chorus, and the audience starts swaying along. _Everything I give you, all comes back to me._ His father’s girlfriend didn’t know who he was. With a sway of the hips, he turns to the side and snaps his back forward, then comes back up slowly, earning a cheer from the crowd. Fifty-two calls. Halfway through the song, he unties the kimono, exposing his front, and the audience members finally pull out their money. Dean lip syncs every word with perfect enunciation, making it look as though it’s his own voice. _“I lived so selfishly, I was the only one,”_ he brushes his hand over one older man’s cheek, who in response gently slides a five dollar bill into Dean’s other hand. Sam moved 1000 miles away and didn’t call him back for a reason. The second time the chorus plays, he makes his way back up the stage, grabbing dollars from left and right and sticking them in the front of his corset. He continues through the motions of his dance, one that he’d performed many times. At the end, he slides the kimono off, letting the silk fabric slide down to the stage. _“You’re shelter from the storm, give me comfort in your arms.”_

 

Three hours later, he’s back in the impala, kimono on the passenger seat, replaced by his leather jacket. His makeup slowly faltered throughout the night, exposing the truth behind his facade. The red lipstick smeared under his lip during _Like a Prayer,_ but the explicit mimic of a blow job near the end of the song earned him a $20 bill. Tomorrow night was when he got paid, and he was looking forward to the five hundred dollar raise, one of the perks of starring in Lawrence’s biggest gay bar’s _Madonna Night._

He hears yelling from outside and turns around. With a smile, he rolls down his window and two figures stumbling on each other wave to him. “You were amazing tonight Jefferson!” One of them yells. Their makeup is smeared all across their face and Dean’s pretty sure they lost one of their silicone boobs, because one half of their bra is empty.

“Thanks kid. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night.” Dean replies, the two boys mumble something else to him, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. He’s about to ask them what they said when suddenly they jump each other, tongues visible against their cheeks. Dean shakes his head and backs out of the back parking lot, turning up the classic rock station. He leaves the window halfway down and speeds down the street toward his apartment building, black hair blowing behind him.

 

He’s half out of drag with ten used makeup wipes on the floor when his phone starts ringing. With a sigh, he stops peeling off the rest of his false lashes and picks up, recognizing the number. “Hello, Dean? This is Kate Milligan again. I’m sorry about yesterday, but I didn’t know...”

“It’s fine. Did he flat line?” Dean asks. The woman doesn’t respond for a second, and Dean pictures the shocked look on her face.

“No, no... John is stable, but he’s still requesting to talk to you. Visiting hours begin at one o’clock tomorrow.” Of course the scrap yard happens to be closed tomorrow.

After a second, Dean answers. “I’ll be there.” He says and hangs up before she can say anything else. Call number thirty-four ended with bruised knuckles and Cas’ lips brushing against his.

Cheeks still contoured and boobs still painted on, Dean pulls on whatever loose fitting clothes he can find and grabs his keys, with the direction of the Gas N’ Sip in mind.


	2. Three Hundred and Seven

Hospitals reminded him of blood stained windows and flashing red and blue lights. Of wavy blonde hair hidden under a sheet that couldn’t cover up his father’s cries or Sam’s small hand clutching his. Of black umbrellas that couldn’t protect him from John’s beer hazed nights or his first boy crush.

Kate Milligan’s blonde hair is straight and greasy, sitting flat on top of her head. Her skin looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in months. She’s wearing the same outfit as two days ago when she thought Dean was the son John liked talking about. The faint smile on her lips reminds him of _her._ “Dean,” She says, he voice just as timid as before, “I just want to apologize again, I was under the impression that John only had one son.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting him to talk about me much anyway.” He walks passed her and heads into the room, but stops in the doorway. His father and brother are talking quietly, Sam hunched over him, holding his hand, like the perfect son. For a second, he stands there, staring at John’s yellowing skin and Sam’s shaggy hair.

When his brother looks up, the puppy-dog eyes he remembers from childhood stare him down. “Dean.” He says, voice just as deep as the day before. He ignored fifty-two calls and changed his number. Dean nearly whimpers when he says his name.

“Fuck.” Dean spats, turning around and walking as fast as he can down the hallway. He can hear his heart beating heavily in his chest, and he isn’t sure if he wants to scream or cry or both. He’s choking.

He makes it all the way to the entrance of the parking garage before a hand tugs on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. Sam’s face is red, his dark eyebrows knit together. “Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?” He yells, his voice echoing in the garage. His anger softens when his older brother makes eye contact, the first he has in over a year. “Dad needs you right now and you just left him lying there.” His voice is quieter this time, as if he’s holding back.

“I called you fifty-two fucking times.” Dean says, his voice flat, trying his hardest not to let the lump in his throat crawl out. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he can’t decide if he wants to cry on his brother’s shoulder or scream at him until he shatters his voice box. He needs donuts. Or chili fries.

Sam doesn’t respond for a few seconds, he just looks down at the cracking cement. “I know.” He mutters, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Dean’s wearing the same typical combat boots he wore every day. His jeans are worn, faded and baggy with a rip in the knee. Sam recognizes the black t-shirt and dark red, plaid over shirt he’d seen once a week for years. It’s baggier than he remembers. Dean’s not as _there_ as Sam remembers. “I know,” he repeats, looking back up.

Dean looks at him again, biting his lip. “Tell Dad I said hi.” His voice gets quieter with every word, and he turns around again and heads for the car. Sam follows him in hot pursuit, his anger building up again, the apology on the tip of his tongue getting lodged back in his throat.

“Dean, wait.” Sam pleads, watching as Dean opens the car door. “Dean, please, just give me five minutes.” Dean doesn’t pay him any mind, and slams the door shut. He’s putting the car in drive when Sam knocks on the window. “Dean. Dean!” The car starts moving forward, and Sam stumbles back to save his feet from getting run over. He watches as the sleek black car speeds forward and out of the parking garage, leaving him standing alone in the dim light.

 

He needs a cheeseburger. And a pizza and nachos and fries and a burrito and cereal and spaghetti. He needs a calzone stuffed with ten pounds of meat balls and tomato sauce and ravioli and garlic bread and Chinese food with extra sweet and sour sauce and honey mustard and chicken fries with ranch dressing on the side and a twelve pack of beer and he needs it _now._

Taking a hard right, Dean ignores the honking behind him and slams down on the gas pedal, heading straight for the nearest grocery store. The hospital grows smaller and smaller behind him, Sam and his dad and Kate Milligan disappearing. The first time Dean called he left a forty minute long message.

Once he parks crookedly, he turns the car off and walks as fast as he can down the pavement, the busy parents and old people blurred in his vision. Inside the store, he grabs a cart and heads down the first isle, filling it with three family sized bags of cereal. Next he goes for all the premade baked goods he can find, starting from brownies all the way to scones. An employee stops to ask him if he needs any assistance, but Dean continues trotting through the store without paying him any mind.

Fifty two calls. Chips. Kate Milligan. Macaroni and cheese. Hepatic failure. Apple pie. It’s called a piece, not a song. Egg salad. Fifty two calls. Pizza. Fifty two calls. Hot dogs. Fiftytwocalls. Mint chocolate chip. _Fiftytwocalls_. Cheeseburger. Fiftytwocallscheetostwinkiessnickers. Fiftytwocallsglazedpinkfrostedsprinkleddonuts. _Fiftytwocallsspaghettiosdeepdishpizzababybackribsquesadillacherrypielemonpopsiclesritzcheesecrackersbutteredpopcornskittlesdoritos12345678910111213141516171819202122232425262728293031323334353637383940414243444546474849505152dingdongsfriedchickenfriedchickenpizzacheetosfiftytwocallsfiftytwopringlessprinklessprinklespizzaapplepiebloodonthewindowblueberrymuffinswavyblondehairpizzapizzadonutscookiesapplepiebeerbeerbeerfiftytwocallschickennuggetsfriesstrawberryicecreamskinnycowpepsififtytwocallsfiftytwothousandcaloriescaloriesfatcaloriespizza._

The cashier stares at him as she checks the food out, trying her best not to ask any questions. He stares at the register screen, watching as the numbers at up from ten to forty to eighty to three hundred and seven. Dean slides his credit card while the girl starts bagging the items, not even trying to organize them, instead focusing on the impatient building line beginning behind Dean.

He makes it all the way out of the parking lot before he reaches into a bag and tears open a bag of cheetos. The first one his shoves into his mouth he hardly tastes, then he shoves a handful into his mouth, letting his saliva soak up all the cheese. By the time he makes it home, he’s finished two bags of cheetos and half the box of frosted donuts.

Dean doesn’t get out of his car until there are ten empty boxes on the passenger seat and his face is covered with chocolate and cheese. He grabs the rest of the grocery bags and stumbles up the stairs toward his apartment, earning a faint smile from the newlywed couple standing in their doorway.

After dropping the bags on the dusty counter he sheds his jacket and boots. He eats and eats and eats the pizza and the cookies and the nachos and the ding dongs. That’s when he cracks and heads straight for the bathroom. As soon as his knees hit the ground and his fingers hit the back of his throat and it’s out of him and his cheeks are swollen it’s time for round two.

Nearly an hour flies by and he’s nearly done, saving the six pies for last. They sit next to him on the water stained bathroom tiles, he’s too exhausted to get up again. His eyes are pink and swollen, matching his cheeks, and he feels like he’s pregnant. When he’s done heaving, he opens the first pie, cherry and shiny and heavy in his hands. Above him he hears feet stomping, presumably in Cas’ bedroom. They stumble for a few minutes while Dean grabs a handful of cherry and piles it into his mouth until he can’t chew anymore and must swallow. It’s silent while he finishes off the rest of the pies in record time. The apple barely makes it down to his stomach before it’s coming back up, running over his fingers and smearing around his chin.

Over the gagging he hears the stumbling beginning again, fading in and out until it ends with a loud thump. Dean spits into the toilet and looks up, waiting for another noise. After a minute, he clutches onto the toilet seat and pulls himself up slowly, trying to get feeling back into his legs. He kicks the pie containers getting to the sink and rinses his mouth out, trying his best to ignore the sharp burning in his throat. It’s still silent above him.

He pulls back on his jacket and shoes and starts making his way upstairs slowly, leaning on the rail. Once at Cas’ door, he meekly knocks twice. No answer. With a sigh, he turns the knob and it opens, leading him into a dark apartment, the cello sitting on the floor next to an empty chair.

“Cas?” Dean croaks out, his voice raw, as if he’d been screaming for hours. “Cas, where are you man?” He inches forward, looking around. Receiving no answer, he makes his way for the bedroom, taking note of the open bottle of caffeine pills sitting in the kitchen.

“Dean?” a voice whispers, coming from the other side of the bedroom. Dean walks around the unmade bed and steps over a stack of books to find Cas slouched against the wall, head in his hands. “You’re okay.”

Dean crouches down to get level with the blind man. “Are you okay?” He asks, running a hand down Castiel’s thigh. The man looks up, staring at Dean’s forehead with his ice blue eyes.

“I heard you.” He says. His tone is distant, as if he’s dreaming the conversation. “I always hear you. I try not to listen but I always hear you.” Dean’s hand stops on his knee, and Cas rests his hand on top of it. Before Dean can apologize, he speaks up again, “something happened. With Sam.”

The hand on top of Dean’s tightens, and he sinks down to his knees. “I called him fifty two times.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence in the dark of Cas’ messy bedroom until Dean’s phone starts ringing in his pocket. Hesitantly, he digs it out of his jeans, swallowing down the burning sensation in his throat when he sees the Palo Alto number. His thumb hovers over the accept button, but one more look at the man crouched down in front of him and he puts it on the floor. Dean bites his lip for a second before leaning forward and caressing Castiel’s cheek with his thumb. The last time they kissed Dean was too drunk to stand and Cas still had the rubber band tight on his arm.

Dean wants to pulls Cas in and press their mouths together, taste him in his bones and kiss him until he feels numb. He wishes things were different, that they met at a coffee shop when the leaves were still orange and Dean spilled his drink all over Cas’ shoes, but it was okay because they’re his brother’s. That Cas’ car needed a new engine and brought it to Bobby’s, and Dean left his number taped on the wheel. That Cas tripped bringing his groceries up the stairs, and Dean helped him clean up the broken egg shells and they bumped noses standing up again.

Instead they touch, they explore sweaty skin and inhale the scent of each other, they melt into each other. Cas pretends that Dean doesn’t smell like vomit and bourbon and isn’t shaking and Dean pretends that Cas doesn’t shoot up and bleed from his fingertips and obsess over notes until the bags under his eyes are purple.

His phone starts ringing again, buzzing on the floor and lighting up the darkness. Cas looks in the direction of it, then back at Dean. His eyebrows are furrowed together, like he’s pondering what should happen next. “Perhaps you should speak to your father, Dean.” Castiel’s words feel like a stab. Everyone keeps telling Dean to see him, to hear him out, they want him to talk to the man who he hasn’t spoken too in years because that man is sick and dying and it’s his last chance. Everyone except Cas. But Cas didn’t even know.

“Who told you?” Dean asks. It’s a simple question, but his voice is dripping with venom, threatening to poison the blind man if he says the right answer.

“Sam called me this morning after you left the hospital and explained the situation to me.”

Dean lets go of Cas’ hand and stands up, leaving the man by himself on the floor. “And you weren’t gonna mention it to me, right?” He spats. He knows he’s overreacting, but something in him wants to let go of the only good thing he has so he’ll have an excuse to hate himself. Cas opens his mouth to respond, but Dean cuts him off. “You just want me to go to that fucking hospital just like everyone else does, just so he can chew me out one last time. What else could that asshole want?”

Castiel drops his arms at his sides and closes his eyes. Above him, he can hear Dean’s shallow breathing. He hears the footsteps stomping out of the room. Realizing he’s run out of time, he stumbles forward. “Dean, please wait.” He yells, but the elder Winchester is already almost at the door. “Dean.” He yells again, louder. The door opens with a loud creak. “Dean, your father needs your liver.” There’s a pause for a second, then the door slams shut, leaving Castiel alone in the dark apartment.

In the hallway, alone, Dean stares at his feet and takes a deep breath. _Your father needs your liver._ Of course, it all makes sense to him now. John wanted to milk him dry, take him for all he’s worth, and finish him off. He starts walking toward the stairwell to get back to his apartment, the dark building outside indicating that he needed to take the stage soon.

 

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling on a pink leather jacket to complete his look. Pale pink lace lines his legs, meeting at the bottom of a pair of white leather booty shorts that hugged him a little too tight. The white brassiere pinned tight around his torso complemented the contoured cleavage, making him look like a real woman from the front. He choose a hip length, yellow tinted blonde wig that he hadn’t brushed in months. His lips were plump and cherry red, standing out from the harsh black eyeliner caked around his eyes.

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot_ raced through his head on his way to the bar, his father’s voice echoing over and over. _What are the guys down at the roadhouse gonna think when they find out my son dresses up like a bitch for a living?_ He parks in his normal spot and checks his makeup in the mirror, ensuring that not even an eyelash is out of place.

He has to duck when he walks into the dressing room, his heels making him taller than even Sam. The rest of the girls are touching up their makeup and he can hear the Supremes coming from the stage, indicating that someone was already performing. They all ignore him, as usual, and he makes his way to an empty mirror to check his wig. _I’m So Excited_ comes to an end and after a minute a queen walks in, sweat caked over her foundation and white afro wig nearly hitting Dean in the face.

Brushing out a tangle in the wig next to his chin, Dean waits for the announcement. A few words are said as an introduction as he walks to the edge of the stage. As soon as the voice shouts _Jefferson Slutship!_ and the audience starts cheering, Dean steps out. He poses with one hand flat in the air, parallel to his forehead and the other hand on his hip as the familiar sound of a roar and then cowbell fills his ears. _“Maybe I didn’t treat you, quite as good as I should,”_ he starts mouthing when the lyrics start. As the song goes on, he makes his way up and down the stage, swaying his hips to the music and making large gestures with his arms. People begin holding out money, and he starts strutting down the stairs and into the audience. He gets a laugh when someone hands him a $10 bill and he fake gasps, before pointing at their pants and making the gesture of a blow job.

_“Little things I should have said and done,”_ he brings his hand to his chest, leaning against the pillar in front of the bar. Castiel held him for hours when Sam’s things were gone when Sam was on a one way flight to his dream school, leaving Dean to drown himself in whiskey. He stroked Dean’s cheek and pressed him tight against his chest, cradling him close in the safety of his arms. _“I never took the time.”_ Cas always reminds him that it’s called a piece, not a song. He once told Dean that his piece was about him, that it was warm like his essence. _“You were always on my mind.”_ He left Cas sitting in the dark. _“You were always on my mind.”_

The song comes to an end, leaving him standing in the middle of the stage feeling Cas’ hand on his knee and his heart in his throat. _“And I guess I never told you, I’m so happy that your mine.”_

The crowd cheers for him, some chanting his name. He reaches a hand out toward a middle-aged man in a grey suit who hesitantly joins him on stage. One of the employees pulls out a metal chair for the man to sit on. The speakers above them play _“3, 4, 2, 2!”_ and the beat of the drums fills the room, vibrating in Dean’s chest. People start yelling when the familiar guitar riff plays. The lights change to a bright red when the lyrics begin, and Dean starts the choreographed dance he created months ago. As it goes on, more and more people start holding out money, some throwing it onto the stage. When the chorus comes on for the second time, Dean sits on the man’s lap, straddling him to they’re facing each other.

Dean can feel his arousal beneath him, and he tries to ignore it as he lip syncs. The man gets a little handsy, grabbing onto Dean’s hips, trying to move him up and down. Dean turns away from the audience for a second, still mouthing along, to give the man an angry look. When he looks back at the audience, he exaggerates the words and they sing in unison to the song. _“Where? There? Yeah!”_ With every word he thrusts up, then back down onto the man’s lap. For the remainder of the song, he continues to grind on the man, who’s bottom half gets a little more excited with every slide.

Grateful that it’s over, Dean steps off of him and smiles when he hands him a $20. The songs go by quickly until his hour is up, having earned over three hundred dollars. By the time he gets backstage again, he’s sweaty and he can’t wait to untuck and get out of the six inch heels. The cold air in the back parking lot feels like heaven on his face. He’s fumbling with his keys when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he jumps to the side and looks at the person.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” It’s the man from the lap dance, and he looks drunker than before. “I just wanted to see you again.”

Dean has to try his hardest to not roll his eyes into the back of his head. It wasn’t the first time someone got the wrong idea. “Sorry buddy, shop is closed.” He spats, and gets out his keys again.

“Come on,” the man pleads, grabbing Dean’s shoulder again, “you don’t think there was something there before?”

“No.” Dean says, jerking away again. “There wasn’t.” Hot anger begins filling his veins.

“I can make it good for you.” The man says, his voice low and too close to Dean’s ear for his liking.

“I said no.” Dean turns around to look at the man, a hard frown on his face.

The man looks him up and down once more, before shaking his head and walking away. “Faggot.” He barks, not sparing Dean another glance.

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

Dean stares at his reflection in the side mirror for a second before unlocking the car. He slams the door next to him as hard as he can, causing the car to shake. He speeds down the road in silence on the way home, clutching the steering wheel hard enough that his fake nails tear into his skin.

 

He notices the red and blue lights before the gurney. He gets out of the car and starts walking toward the stairs with his arms wrapped around himself when he recognizes the dark brown hair. “Cas?” He whimpers, his voice barely audible.

A paramedic spots him and comes up to Dean, looking taken aback by his appearance. “Excuse me, uh... ma’am. Do you know this man?” _Sure, he lives above me. Sure, we fuck on a daily basis. Sure, he makes me feel numb._

“What happened?” Dean asks, his voice wavering. He left him sitting alone in the dark. Looking over, he watches as the gurney gets lifted into the back of the ambulance.

The paramedic frowns and sighs. “A neighbor filed a complaint about music being too loud, so the landlord went to tell him to turn it down and found him unconscious in the kitchen with a half empty bottle of Vicodin on the counter. He needs his stomach pumped.”

“I, I need to go with him.” Dean pleads, starting to make his way toward the open ambulance doors. “I have to make sure he’s okay. This is my fault.”

“Sir, family only.” Another paramedic says, stepping between Dean and the gurney. “Are you related?”

Dean feels his chest get tight and his vision go blurry. “No, but...” he trails off. Call number seven ended with screaming and bruised knuckles, and Cas kissed each of them. The first time they had sex Dean’s tears stained the sheet and Cas rubbed his neck and told him it would be okay. When Dean told him about drag Cas smiled and said to save a dance for him. “I love him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> i live off comments they make me happy. positive comments do at least.
> 
> the songs used are "always on my mind" by the pet shop boys and "do you wanna touch" by joan jett


	3. You Won't Let Me Out Alive

Dean picked off the last of his glue-on nails and tossed them on the accumulating pile of Jefferson Slutship on the hospital floor. In front of him, Cas was out cold, hooked up to an IV and heart monitor. The beeping stayed constant, but Dean still feared if he left the room he’d come back to a flat line. He yearned for the vending machine just outside of the room, but the last thing he wanted to do was leave Cas again, something he’d already done too many times. With a sigh, he kicks off his heels and slides them next to the jacket and brassiere. Luckily, he had a spare gray t-shirt from the salvage yard in the back of his car. He knew he probably would get weird looks if he went out of the room, top half in a dirty t-shirt, bottom half in booty shorts and lace tights. _I’m like a half-man, half-woman centaur,_ he thought to himself.

In the bed, Cas stirred slightly, humming something, causing his heart monitor to pick up a few beats. “Cas?” Dean questioned, leaning forward. His wig brushes against the bedridden man’s arm, and it twitches.

With a sharp intake of breath, Castiel’s eyes open. For a second, he stays still, and Dean stares at the man, devoid of color, his veins making a map against his skin. Suddenly, he starts reaching around, feeling up and down his hospital gown and over the bed. His heart rate picks up, “What the hell? Where- I-“

“Whoa, Cas, Cas-“ Dean exclaims, reaching forward and grabbing his forearm to ensure he doesn’t move the needle in his arm, “Cas, it’s me. Dean. Calm down.” Castiel’s arms slump down onto the sheets and he rests his head back down on the pillow. “You’re in the hospital.”

Castiel sighs and closes his eyes, listening to the beeping of his heart monitor slow down. “What happened?”

_I fucked up,_ Dean thought. “You OD’d on pain killers.” He says, tightening his grip on Cas’ arm. “Vicodin.” Dean’s long hair is starting to fall in his face the longer he looks down, and he brushes back a strand.

Narrowing his eyebrows, Castiel reaches his arm up and grasps a handful of the wig. He seems confused at first, but then lets it go. “You’re in drag still. I’m sorry, this must make you uncomfortable, Dean, I-“

“No way, Cas. You’re not apologizing to me.” Dean cuts him off, sliding the wig off his head and tossing it on the pile of clothes next to him. “It’s my fault, Cas. I just left you alone, I didn’t even hear you out. I... I’m sorry.” He feels a lump building in his throat, but he sure as hell wasn’t crying in front of the man in front of him. Before Cas can respond, Dean continues. “I was thinking about us last night, at work, after I left. And when I got home, I saw you on the stretcher and it scared me thinking that you would have died if no one found you.” Castiel nods his head and Dean pretends that he doesn’t notice tears forming in his eyes. Dean has a million things to say and he knows that Cas would listen to every single one of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Sam contacted me sooner.” Cas says, turning his head in the direction of where Dean’s sitting. “And about your father... We can talk to him together.”

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ Dean licks his bottom lip and rests his hands on his lace clad thighs. “No, this is something I have to do myself.” He looks down at the pile of clothes next to him. Images of black eyes and whiskey flash through his eyes. A broken bottle. The taste of metallic in his mouth. The clock on the wall ticks passed another number, indicating it was almost eight. He had work in half an hour at the shop, and he sure as hell wasn’t going still tucked. “Listen, I’ll come back after work, alright?”

Cas closes his eyes again and nods. “I just pray that no one contacted my family.”

 

After a quick escape from the hospital, only managing to freak out one woman in the elevator, Dean found himself rushing to get out to his car, already ten minutes late for work. He speeds down the road toward the salvage yard, thinking of different excuses in his head. Flat tire. Late alarm. Busted shower.

By the time he gets there, he’s worked up a complete backstory with a cliffhanger to tell Bobby. He was in the shower getting ready for work when suddenly he thought he heard a knock on the door so he turned the water off and slipped but he’s okay, just bruised and-

“What are you doing here, idgit?” Dean’s interrupted from his thoughts by the man himself, who is not as angry as he thought he’d be. Bobby tosses a greased stain rag onto his tool bench and stands up straight from under the hood of a rusty, dented Toyota. Before Dean can reply, to his surprise, his boss pulls him in for a tight hug. Dean’s hands hang by his legs. “Sam called.” Of course he did. “Told me about your old man.” Of course he did. “I’m not expectin’ you here until he’s back at home.” Of course.

Dean shuffles out of Bobby’s tight grasp and backs up. “Bobby, look, I’m fine. I can’t afford to sit out anyway.” He walks past the older man and picks up his tool belt from the shelf.

“Boy, listen to me.” Bobby says, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and turning him around to face him. He frowns, eyes scanning Dean’s dark under-eyes and paling skin. He’s thankful that he smells the man’s need for deodorant and not the usual beer-tinted, faint scent of marijuana. “I understand if you gotta take some time off. I know you and John haven’t exactly had the best relationship these past few years, neither did me and my old man, but... You still have to be there for him. You’re family.”

“You can’t afford for me to sit out, either.” Dean says, his voice distant, as if he’s sleepwalking. Bobby can’t argue with him. He’s short on labor already. He watches as Dean turns around and heads toward the car he’s been fixing for weeks.

Once he’s under the hood, everything falls into place. His routine goes on as it always does, and he doesn’t realize it’s lunch break until Bobby’s patting him on the back and telling him he’s picking up Mexican. He finishes his current challenge and then stands up for the first time in hours. For a minute, he basks in the silence of the garage, empty except for himself. There’s a sour taste in his mouth and his throat feels like the Serengeti, so he wipes the sweat off his forehead and heads into the empty breakroom. He chugs down a third of the water tank when he sees them, sitting in all their glory on the counter.

A dozen doughnuts, glazed, untouched, box open on the counter. He’s alone. His stomach growls, begging for sustenance. His body aches, begging for energy. There’s a ringing in his ears, or maybe it’s from the air conditioner. He doesn’t care. With the image of Cas in the hospital bed, needle stuck in his arm, he reaches for the first doughnut. Dean stares at the clock, counting every second that passes as he stuffs each pastry in his mouth one by one. Two minutes go by and the box is empty, only crumbs dotting the inside.

The garage door starts opening and Dean grabs the box as fast as he can and tosses it in the trashcan. With vigor, he rushes into the bathroom and slams the door behind him. The low growl of Bobby’s pick-up can be heard through the door. He turns the sink on. The car shuts off. He shoves three fingers down his throat. The car door shuts.

The sound of his own gagging and the running water makes him feel calm again. By the time only bile is coming up, he’s resting his elbows on the toilet seat and hugging the bowl with his knees. There’s vomit staining his cheek from the splashing and his knuckles are decorated with pink teeth marks. With a sigh, Dean forces himself up with a groan and flushes down the contents, watching as what was the box of doughnuts on the counter swirls down the drain. He washes his face and hands slowly, staring at himself in the mirror.

He opens the door, ready to return to his job, but he’s stopped short by a worried stare. Bobby eyes him up and down and shakes his head. “Go home, boy.” He says.

Dean tries his best to not roll his eyes and starts walking back into the garage. “I have to finish, Bobby. It’s my project, and-“

“Dean Winchester, so help me God, I will fire your ass and put you on the street if you don’t go home right now. Don’t think I didn’t hear you heavin’ your guts out in there. Sick days are paid for.” With a sigh, Dean hangs up his tool belt in exchange for his keys. He starts to head out the door, but stops to listen to Bobby say once last thing. “And I don’t expect you back for at least two days. I don’t need my other employees catchin’ whatever you got, too.”

Once outside, Dean kicks an oil can as hard and he can and watches it skid across the dusty ground. He feels like screaming at the top of his lungs, until they give out and he can’t speak again. The acid feeling in his mouth lingers. He pulls out his cell phone as he walks to the car, in hopes that he has a missed call from Cas, but there’s nothing new. Then again, the blind man is probably laying in a hospital bed listening to Jerry Springer.

As soon as he’s in the car, he reaches into the glove box and digs around in it until he finds the brown, paper bag he was looking for. Then, he fishes out the old bible from his backseat and tears out one of the blank pages from the back.

Bobby watches from the garage door opening, unseen by his top employee, as Dean lights the rolled up hemp paper and puts his car in drive. His heart strains at the sight of the man taking a long, hard hit of the drug and slowly letting it seep out of his mouth before he speeds out of the lot.

 

Eyes glazed over and acid feeling disappearing from his throat, Dean grabs onto the rail and pulls himself up the stairs toward his apartment for a much needed shower. There’s still glitter scattered behind his ears and grease stained his neck. He unlocks his apartment and walks in, throwing his keys on the coffee table. They slide off and onto the carpet, landing with a thud. “Shit.” He curses, walking over to pick them up.

Another hand snatches them and places them on the coffee table. Dean stares at the dusty, business-type shoes on his carpet and looks up with dread. Sam sits on the ratty couch, his long legs sprawled out as far as they can go. His face filled out, free of the baby fat that lined it not long ago.

It’s silent for a minute as they stare at each other, more in depth now, since they aren’t arguing. Sam notices that his older brother’s cheek bones stick out more than they used to, curving around his fading freckles that once shown bright in the sun. His once vibrant green eyes have dulled, becoming closer to a gray. Red splotches his cheeks, matching the tint in his eyes.

Sam speaks up first, standing from his sitting position and towering over his brother, who’s just on the other side of the coffee table. “ _Jesus,_ Dean. Have you cleaned this place at all since I left?” He knows it’s the wrong point to start off with, but he was expecting to see the floor when he arrived, not countless candy wrappers and grocery bags.

Dean rolls his eyes and looks away, not responding. Call number eleven ended with the worst hangover of his life and a broken TV remote he has yet to get fixed. They stand in an awkward silence once again. This time, it’s Dean who breaks it. “Well, I wasn’t expecting company.” He turns his head to face Sam again, who’s giving him the classic bitch face he remembers all too well. “You didn’t call.”

The younger of the two shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I figured if I did, you would have hid somewhere.” It’s silent again, indicating that Dean knew it too. “We need to talk, Dean.”

“Fine. About what, then?” With a huff, Dean uncrosses his arms and holds them out to his sides.  There is no reply. “What, Sam?” He raises his voice with every word. “You’re _sorry?_ I called you fifty-two fucking times and you didn’t pick up once!” His voice echoes off the walls.

“How could I, Dean?” Sam yells back, a strand of hair falling onto his forehead. “You told me that I was betraying our family. That it was my fault Dad stopped talking to you.” The bite in Sam’s words leaves a mark. He comes forward and his hand flies out, gesturing to the door he walked out of so long ago. “You told me that if I really wanted it, I could be great, so I left because I couldn’t get that here.”

Dean rolls his eyes again and takes a deep breath. He turns to his younger brother, who’s now only a foot away, and raises his voice higher. “You just left me here in the middle of the fucking night without saying goodbye. You ignored all my calls and changed your goddamn phone number.” His voice starts cracking as the lump in his throat grows, aching to escape. Jesus, he needs twelve happy meals.

“You acted like it was the end of the world that I got into law school. Like I was abandoning everything here and leaving forever.” Sam shouts back, inching closer. “You acted like I thought I was too good for everyone here, and I wasn’t. It wasn’t even about me, Dean, was it? You just didn’t want to be alone.”

With a growl, Dean draws his fist back and hurls it into his brother’s cheekbone. Sam stumbles back a few inches and grabs the newly bruised area, his eyes widening only for a second before he retaliates and brings a fist to Dean’s brow bone. He’d need a lot of foundation for that. Dean shakes his head and pushes Sam away from him. When they were younger, Dean used to stand with his feet spread apart and laugh as Sam tried with all of his strength to push his older brother, even a little. Now, Sam grunts and pushes Dean forward as hard as he can. For a moment, Dean catches his balance, but just looks behind Sam, at the wall with dazed eyes before falling back onto the trash littered carpet with a thud.

They sit in silence a few seconds, their chests heaving from the pent up anger. Dean can feel his heart pounding against his chest, ringing in his ears as if he’d pressed his ear against a drum. His chest burns and the taste of metallic comes up in his mouth. Sam’s looking down at the floor between his feet. He sits down on the couch again and takes a deep breath.

“Dad’s dying.”

Dean looks up and straightens his back so that it’s easier for him to sit. Kate Milligan looks like the sad version his mother. She looks just like all of the women John brought home in hopes of replacing her. Her hair isn’t as curly as the one in the body bag. “I know.”

“I’m not his blood type.” Sam continues, running a hand through his hair. “And he can’t be put on the donor list because he... pretty much did it for himself, so.”

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

“No.”

“Livers grow back. Dad doesn’t.” With that, Sam gets up and pulls out his phone, typing something as he heads toward the door. “My ride’s here. Make your decision by tomorrow or we’ll be making a guest list for the funeral.”

 

He’s on his way out, dressed in the red kimono over a tight black, two-piece dress with five pounds of makeup on his face and a short, and a black Uma Thurman wig lining his face. On the other side of the door, Cas stands, red mark on his face and the walking stick he hates at his side.

“You didn’t come see me.” The blind man says, his voice shaky.

Dean bites his lip, painted purple, and pulls the kimono around himself despite the fact that Cas can’t see him. “I’m sorry, I was working, and-“

“Dean.” Cas says, taking a careful step forward. “I came here with something to show you.” Before the drag queen can respond, Cas takes out his cell phone and presses his fingerprint on it. The screen lights up with a recording, and Cas slowly presses play.

Notes begin playing from the phone, deep in sound and varying in octave. They surround Dean, cradling him in their warmth. He closes his eyes as the recording continues, the music dripping with honey. By the time it’s over, the two men have inched close enough together than their feet are touching. Dean towers high over Castiel in his four inch heels. With no words, Dean reaches behind his neighbor and shuts the door behind them before grabbing Cas by the sides of his head and pressing their mouths together, smearing his purple onto the other man’s face.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading 
> 
> comments give me absolute life i cry every time. 
> 
> i do have a question though: are the chapter lengths okay with you guys?


	4. Bloody Blonde Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this is a little late but i had ap tests and a band banquet and a little bit of writers block. after this, i plan on making chapters longer.

Cas smells like cinnamon and cigarettes and it surrounds him, pulling Dean in closer and closer until their chests are pressed together and he fears that the blind man will feel how fast his heart is beating. Dean struggles for air, breathing in through his nose as he feels Cas lick around the inside of his mouth, as if he wants to remember the taste forever. They slowly back up, grabbing and pulling until Dean’s knees hit the armrest of the couch and he reaches back to catch himself. Call pulls away and cups Dean’s cheeks between his hands gently, as if he’s scared he’ll break.

They both catch their breath for a minute, standing in the silence of the apartment. Dean stares at Cas, his eyes darting over the purple tint on his lips from Dean’s lipstick and the cloudy blue of his eyes. Hesitantly, Dean brings his palm up and cups Cas’ cheek, caressing the red mark just under his eye. He leans forward and kisses it lightly, pulling away when the man winces.

“My mother came to the hospital.” Castiel says, his voice rough like gravel. His hands drop from Dean’s cheeks and rest on his shoulders, gliding along the red silk. “She asked me why I did it.”

Dean thinks about the flashing red and blue lights and the stretcher. He sucks in air through his teeth and rests his forehead against Cas’, basking in his scent. “Why’d you do it, Cas?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” The blind man responds and pulls Dean in closer again, so their hips are touching. “I just wanted to sleep... to forget.” Everything was done to forget. Vicodin. Whiskey  Dope. Pizza. Lipstick. Dance. Cello. Purging. Sex.

In his bag, near the door, Dean’s phone starts ringing, interrupting him from his thoughts. With a sigh, he slides out from between Cas and the couch and fishes it out just in time to answer. “Where are you? It’s unlike you to be late.” His boss is on the other end, voice drowned out by The Pointer Sisters but still dripping with venom.

“Shit.” Dean says, looking at the clock. He was supposed to be on stage in three minutes. He contemplates rushing out, but one look at Cas standing by the couch and he knows he’s not getting out of the apartment any time soon. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you before, but something important came up. I can’t make it.”

He can hear the sigh through the speaker on the phone. “Fine, but I’m deducting this from your paycheck.” His boss hangs up, but not before Dean hears him yell for another queen to get her ass moving.

Dean takes a deep breath and looks back at Cas, who was still standing near the couch, facing the wall. He wonders if things were different, if he could see, would he still want to touch him? Would he still cradle him and surround him with himself? He slips off his pumps and makes his way back to Cas slowly. The blind man reaches a hand out and feels around Dean’s kimono until he finds his hand and squeezes it.

“You know, Cas...” Dean starts, unsure of how to approach. “I owe you a dance. When I told you about... this... you wanted a dance.”

Castiel tilts his head and turns it in Dean’s general direction. “I suppose I did.” He waits for a response, but when there isn’t one he inches his hand up to Dean’s bicep and turns the rest of his body.

Dean brings his hand up to match Cas’ on his arm and stares at the other man’s swollen lips. He wants to argue that Cas won’t be able to see it anyway, that it wouldn’t make a difference. “Give me a second. Just stay here.” He says and backs away, frowning at the loss of Castiel’s touch. Picking up his phone from where he left it on the floor near his bag, he starts scrolling through his playlist until he finds what he’s looking for.

The familiar guitar feature crescendos from the speakers and Dean starts simply standing, unmoving as the lyrics begin. _“Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone,”_ he looks down at the ground and stares at his feet, _“I hear you call my name, and it feels like home.”_ The beat picks up and he starts moving his shoulders in circular motions, slowly shuffling toward the other man. Castiel stands in place, unmoving, waiting. The chorus picks up and Dean moves his hips side to side.

He knows that he doesn’t have to move, that Cas wouldn’t know the difference. But there’s something different about it. There’s no crowd of people, no shining lights, no paycheck. Despite the nails and the wig and the makeup and the bra, he doesn’t feel like Jefferson Slutship.

_“When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer,”_ he quickly drops down onto his knees and starts crawling toward Cas, pushing a grocery bag out of the way in the process. _“I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there,”_ as the chorus progresses he finds himself at Castiel’s feet, staring up at him.

The song continues and Dean moves smoothly, but with vigor, mouthing all the words with precision. He reaches up and grabs Castiel’s thighs and squeezes them through his sweatpants once the tempo slows down, _“I hear your voice... it’s like angel sighing.”_ Slowly, he rises until he’s face to face with Cas’ waist. He moves his hands up and wraps them around his hip bones through his shirt. _“Heaven help me.”_

Jefferson Slutship grinds on strangers and eggs people on for money. She isn’t afraid to be vulgar, to sweat and be nasty for people. She oozes confidence and pulls people in close enough that they’re sad to see her go. She pushes Dean Winchester away, for no one else to see.

Cas rests a hand on top of Dean’s head and bites his lip as he feels hands rubbing into his muscles. He listens to Madonna’s voice continue, _“In the midnight hour, I can feel your power.”_ Dean leans forward and presses his cheek into Castiel’s upper thigh, but it’s a silent mutual agreement that that’s all that would be happening.

Dean forces himself up onto his feet, still gliding his hands over the other man’s body. He’s out of breath, overwhelmed. His lip syncing falters, becoming less profound with every word the longer he stares into the faded blue of Castiel’s eyes. _“I hear you call my name, and it feels like home.”_ They’ve grinded against each other before, calling out names and grabbing onto the bed sheets with sweat glistened hands that left scratches and marks on red tinted skin. But that wasn’t happening this time.  Dean stops mouthing the lyrics and smashes his lips into Castiel’s.

The song continues as they grab each other again, pulling closer and closer, fearful that they might get torn apart. Dean falls back onto the couch, pulling the other man down with him, Madonna’s voice long forgotten. _“Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there...”_

He wakes up with drool on his cheek and Cas’ arms crushing his ribs. The room is dark, the only like leaking in from the street light through the blinds. On the counter, he can hear his phone ringing. The time on the clock read 3 a.m. “Cas,” Dean groans, earning no response. “Cas, dude,” he says again, pushing the other man into the back of the couch and sliding out. He hears a grunt, but otherwise nothing. The caller is about to be put to voicemail, but he picks up just in time. “Hello?”

“Dean?” The voice is panicked, gasping for air. He can hear people yelling in the background. “Dean, you have to come to the hospital. This is Kate.” She gasps and then Dean hears more screaming. “Oh, Sam!” Kate Milligan exclaims into the phone. “Dean, please get here.” End of call.

For a second, Dean just stands with the phone in his hand, alone in the dark of his kitchen. “Cas.” He says to the empty room, his voice hoarse. The lump in his throat starts to build and he feels like he’s drowning because his dad is probably flat-lining as he’s standing alone in his kitchen and there’s an empty pizza box in front of him and his lipstick is smeared. “Cas.” He says, louder.

“What?” A voice comes from behind Dean. He hears shuffling, and then Cas is reaching out and grabbing the counter. “Dean, what time is it?”

“Three.”

“What’s wrong?” Cas reaches out and grabs Dean’s silk clad shoulder.

“I think my dad’s dead.”

They stand in silence for a minute. “Let’s go to the hospital.” Cas says. He pulls his shirt down, straightening it out, and walks forward with his hands held out until he finds the door. His walking stick is next to it, leaning against the wall. “Dean, we need to go to the hospital.”

“I haven’t talked to him in over a year.”

“Dean, please. You have to drive.”

“He doesn’t need me.”

“ _Dean._ We need to leave.” Castiel grabs his cane and listens as Dean slips combat boots on, to try to pretend that he’s the real man his father wants him to be and isn’t wearing a bra. Dean holds Castiel’s arm and guides him down the stairs to the impala and helps him in the car.

 

The hospital at 3 a.m. reminds Dean of bloodied blonde hair and flashing red and blue lights and the glass covered street. People are sleeping in the lobby, curled up as best as they can on the small seats, most likely waiting for bad news. Dean and Sam were just like them, years ago. John dropped to his knees when the doctor came out. Cas follows him in earnest, walking with Dean to the elevator and up to his worst fear.

First, he notices Kate Milligan sitting on a chair outside of John’s room with her head in her hands. Her hair is cleaner, but not like _hers._ She looks up and opens her mouth to say something, but then shuts it quickly and stares for a second. “I’m glad you came.” She says, her voice hoarse from crying. “John’s heart rate began to decrease dramatically in his sleep, but the doctors were able to bring him back to a normal pace. He’s alive.”

Relief washes over Dean in waves, and he feels Cas squeeze his hand. He can see Sam’s silhouette coming out of the room through the window, and he feels everything stop and his heart start beating faster and faster and

“Dean, is that you?” Sam sounds so distant but too close at the same time. _What would your mother say about all this? I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

Dean Winchester puts on a bra and ten layers of eyeliner and a wig and shakes his ass for strangers for money. Dean Winchester is too chicken-shit so he pretends to be a woman. Dean Winchester is

“I-Wow. It’s been a crazy night.” Sam walks forward until he’s close enough to look at his brother, the details, everything. His eyes linger at the contoured cleavage for a second and he raises his eyebrows. “What... is this?”

“This is...” Dean starts, unsure of how to phrase it. He was certain that if Sam found out, he would panic. He would no longer be Sam’s idol. But, he supposed that opinion of him died off when Sam hit 6’0. “My... drag. That I do for a job at night.”

Sam nods and looks Dean up and down again, narrowing his eyebrows. “This is... You don’t seem... Okay. So, uh, how long has this been going on?”

“A few years... I didn’t tell you because it’s kind of...” _gay._

“It wasn’t expected, that’s for sure. But, Dean, if you really like it, then... I mean, you look like a woman. I didn’t know you could make boobs look at realistic.” Sam’s head pops up from staring at his brother’s thighs, presumably looking for his hidden penis, “This is what you and Dad fought about, isn’t it?”

Dean shakes his head and looks down to avert eye contact. The vending machine down the hall is looking more and more appealing. He’d been preparing for this conversation for years. Sam would yell. Sam would leave. Sam would be like his dad.

“Dean?” The voice is weak, coming from his dad’s room. Dean feels his heart rate increase, and Cas does too, squeezing his hand again.

Sam gives him the look he remembers from childhood, the puppy-dog face that won too many arguments. Leaving words unsaid, his brother turns to Cas, who had been standing in silence. “Hey, Cas. How’ve you been, man?”

The blind man straightens out his posture and takes a deep breath before answering. “I have been well, Sam. I’ve finally scheduled my audition for the symphony. If you remember barging upstairs to yell at me to be quiet last year, than you will be happy to know my work has paid off.” Dean didn’t know his audition was set up.

Sam chuckles, “Yeah, I guess I should apologize for that. Your playing is beautiful, but at 2am the night before the LSATs it was a little much.” Cas mutters something and nods, albeit more at the wall than Sam.

“Dean, get in here.” John’s voice comes from the room again, this time stronger.

Dean sighs and looks at Sam once more. He nods, and picks up conversation with Cas again while Dean unlatches their hands and starts slowly making his way toward the room. _Dean, what the fuck is this?_ He should have changed before he came. _What are you, some crossdressing pussy bitch?_ He should have quit when he found out. _What would your mother say about this?_ He never should have started.

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

The room is dark, except for the dim light flickering in through the hallway window. His dad is flat on his back on the bed, looking thinner than he remembers and skin a pale yellow. There’s three needles of God knows what stuck into his arm that lead up to several bags of liquid. Guilt washes over Dean. He should have visited sooner. He should have called. He should have

“Are you kidding me?” John’s stern voice cuts Dean out of his thoughts. “What did I tell you about this shit? This is how you show up to see me?”

He cannot speak. He wants pizza and chips and pie and Kate Milligan. Kate Milligan is back. Kate Milligan is yelling at John. Kate Milligan has a son. Kate Milligan is saying something. “Dean, please. I know this is difficult, but I need John. We need John. My son, Adam, and I. You’re the only person who can help him.”

The edges of his vision are blurring, causing a dark overcast to wash over the room. Waterfalls run through his ears, blocking out the rest of Kate Milligan. John’s limp body becomes distorted in his spinning vision, fading in and out. He only hears himself say yes, he’ll save his father. Because Kate Milligan has a son who needs a father and John needs a new son because his first one was a disappointment and his second one is never around. Kate Milligan’s mouth is moving, she’s thanking him, and he only nods before stumbling out of the room and away. Away. He needs to get away.

The vending machine has all kinds of junk, ranging from gummy candy to beef jerky and Dean wants all of it. He needs to be full of _something._ It took a slick road to lose his mother. It took the startling discovery of crossdressing to lose his father. It took his lack of the ability to be alone to lose his brother. And he was almost okay with it. He was almost there, his fingers just grazing the idea of being comfortable with himself. The his father’s liver decided to start failing and he’s the only one who can fix it because John spent too much time drowning in liquor than he did teaching Dean how to shave or drive or be the son he wanted him to be. And now, to finish him off, after taking everything, John is finally digging as deep as he can into him. Oh, God, he needs beef jerky smothered in honey mustard and chocolate chips.

“Dean, is that you?” Castiel is sitting in a plastic chair, his cane resting across his lap. Castiel, who cannot even look at him, admires him. Cherishes him. Dean feels his heart rate slow down and his vision begins clearing. Tears smear his eyeliner down his cheeks and onto his top lip. “I believe we should go now.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, staring at the vending machine. “We should.” The blind man grabs his extended hand and they begin making their way toward the elevator, most likely the most interesting couple to grace the hospital halls in quite some time.

As they make their way through the lobby, Dean spots Sam pacing back and forth on the phone near a staircase. He’s running his hand through his hair, signaling to Dean that he’s stressed out. By the time Dean and Cas get to him, the phone is back in his pocket and he’s leaning against the wall. It reminds Dean of when Sam got stood up at prom and he had to come pick him up because he was too wasted to drive home.

“Did you say yes?” Sam asks, not sparing the other men a glance. He leans further into the wall, resting his head on his forearm.

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t know if they should hug or if he should grab his shoulder or put an arm around his back. Years ago, they both stood in this same lobby, huddled together on the same chair. He had cradled Sam in his arms then, let his shirt soak up the tears pouring from his brother’s eyes. The image of her bloodied hair stained his mind, replacing every wide smile and her bright eyes.

When Sam doesn’t show any sign of response, Dean and Cas turn and make their way out to the parking lot. The nurse at the front desk smiles at them, empathetic, like the cashier at the gas station does every time Dean stuffs himself. By the time he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, switching the car into drive, he’s nearly sweating in anticipation. He needs pizza, because his dad is dying and Sam is turning his back and Cas almost died and Kate Milligan has a son that needs a father.

Once the car is gliding down the nearly empty road, and Cas is humming music centuries old, Dean spots the pizzeria. He almost misses the turn, almost. They’re open 24 hours, both a blessing and curse. Frowning, Castiel stops humming to speak, “Where are we? This is not the apartment building.”

Dean pretends that it’s okay. “This is the pizza place. I’m hungry. D’you want a slice?”

Cas pretends that Dean’s only buying a slice. “No. I don’t like junk food, and it’s late at night. We should get home soon, I have to practice for my audition tomorrow.”

Dean pretends that Cas won’t stay up all night on caffeine pills. “Alright, I’ll be quick, just stay in the car. What station do you want the radio on?”

Cas pretends that Dean isn’t going to be hunched over the toilet for half an hour once they get home. “I’m fine sitting in silence. Thank you.”

For a second, Cas rubs his thumb gently over Dean’s knuckle, and Dean does it back. A new addition to their routine, a reminder of their brief bliss, where it was only them and there was no food  or drugs or livers or Jefferson Slutship. As Dean begins walking toward the entrance, still clad in full drag, he glances back at the car, at Cas’s silhouette in the window. Oh, God, he should have kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i do have a question though, do the chapters seem to get worse and worse composition as they go on? i feel like they maybe are.


	5. It's a Sad, Sad World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i live for feedback.

It isn’t until he’s sitting alone in his dark apartment at 7 am with the faint sound of cello above him and fifteen used makeup wipes in his lap that it hits him. He just agreed to donate part of his liver to save the man who after over a year still cannot accept who he is. But he does not feel angry, no, he feels nothing. Not even the three once full pizza boxes thrown onto the floor in front of him made him feel anger or fear or sadness. Wasn’t that the point of it, at first? Shoving thousands of calories down his throat and hacking them back up because he couldn’t handle it.

His phone pings with a text from Sam, giving him a time for that afternoon to get testing done before the lifesaving operation for Kate Milligan and her son. Her son, who John feels so much compassion for that he was willing to beg for his failure of a son to help him. Her son, who John loves so much more than his own.

With a sigh, Dean forces himself up off the floor and picks up the remnants of Jefferson Slutship. He makes a beeline for his bedroom and starts putting it away. Above him, the cello music suddenly stops. He’s in the middle of placing the wig on his dresser when the yelling starts. The words aren’t clear, but Cas’s voice rumbles above him and there’s stomping. Things are thrown onto the floor. After a few minutes, it’s quiet again, leaving Dean wondering. He’s about to go upstairs, just to check, but then the cello starts playing again.

He should have kissed him.

They should have met at the grocery store, both reaching for the last sugar-packed, fruity cereal. “No, you take it.” “No, _you_ take it.” Then they get brunch at a coffee shop, and Dean would spill his over the front of his shirt, so Cas gives him his to wear. Dean accidentally wears it home, so of course he _has_ to see Castiel again to return it. And then, they would kiss, on the sidewalk and Dean’s throat wouldn’t be burning and Cas’ arms wouldn’t be shaking and Sam wouldn’t have 52 missed calls. Everything would be perfect, and nothing would hurt.

As soon as Jefferson Slutship is tucked away in Dean’s closet, he sits on his bed, his body suddenly feeling heavy. His brain was pounding against his skull, screaming to get out. Call number seven ended in a broken headlight on the Impala. He can feel his stomach crawling up, trying to escape through his throat, to escape the horror of himself. He cannot remember the last time he kept food down.

 

_In the mirror, he stares at a beautiful girl with high cheek bones and full, plump lips. She smiles at him, fluttering her long, thick eyelashes. A curved, pale pink bob frames her flawless face. Sequins and jewels line her tightly cinched waist, leading up to her low cleavage, exposed by the long, white dress. When she laughs, the room lights up, and she becomes the only being. Everything else is gone from existence, unimportant, for she is the essence of everything there is to be. With that smile, the bright smile that resembles_ hers, _the mirror girl reaches out her hand. It extends through the mirror and she holds it right in front of Dean. The light from her essence leaks into the room he’s in, shining bright just in front of him._

_Hesitantly, Dean reaches his hand up to grasp hers, to be pulled through the mirror and be absorbed by her being. But before he can reach her, she lunges forward, plunging her hand straight into his chest. He tries to gasp for air, but he cannot. With panic, he reaches up to cover his mouth but is met with nothing, just skin stretching over his face. The mirror girl laughs, full-bodied and from the depths of her pretty pink, empty stomach. She pulls and Dean feels his chest empty, feels one last jolt of panic before everything goes black._

_The mirror girl’s laugh echoes in his ears, getting deeper and deeper. His eyes widen as he witnesses her melting away like wax, her eyelashes and pretty pink hair drooping down her head. “You really thought that you could be like me?” Her distorted, static voice booms in his head. “You’ll never be me. You don’t have even close to a chance of being like me. You weren’t meant to be me.”_

_Dean blinks, and the mirror girl is gone, replaced by the image of his laughing father. The dark red, still pumping heart drips blood down his calloused hand, staining his jacket sleeve. “I can’t believe you wish you were that whore, Dean.” He says, his tone the same as the time when Dean’s first homecoming date stood him up to make out with the math teacher behind the gym. “It’s funny to me, how fucked up you are even after all those years I drilled it into your thick skull. It’s hilarious, how you think you’re worth something.”_

_The mirror disappears and the heart his gone, nowhere to be seen. John is standing now, staring down at him, as he always has. The blood still stains his sleeve, just like it stained her curly blonde hair. Dean kneels in front of him, his knees getting bruised on the hard wood floor. Behind him, bras and corsets and wigs and eyelashes are piled on top of each other. Dean’s cheek and eye throb, his ribs are already sore and he can taste the metallic in his mouth._

_“I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot.”_

 

Dean is jolted awake by his phone ringing, the 650 number flashing in his eyes. With a groan, he rolls over and picks it up. “Hello?... Fuck me. Give me twenty minutes.” His appointment was supposed to have started ten minutes ago. He can’t even make it on time to save his father’s life.

As soon as he makes it into the lobby, Sam’s coming at him, hair shaggy and five o’clock shadow thick. He’s wearing a suit again, he has every day since Dean picked him up, it must be his new lawyer thing. Sam drags him to the elevator without a word, not even sparing him a glance. They nearly run into an elderly couple in the hallway.

“Mr. Winchester, have a seat.” A woman with a smile too bright for the hospital says once Dean gets pushed into a room. She gestures to a hospital bed, but it isn’t as solemn looking as John’s, and the blinds are open, letting the afternoon sunlight trickle in. Still trying to catch his breath after being pushed through the hallway, Dean nods and follows her instructions. There’s words pouring out of her mouth, but he tunes them out. She begins by taking his blood pressure, which causes her to frown and take it twice more. “You’re blood pressure is a little bit below average, Mr. Winchester. It shouldn’t be a problem for the surgery, however.” She smiles and continues with the examination.

On another floor in the hospital Kate Milligan is sitting next to his father’s bed, worry consuming her. He will tell her everything is okay, that his son is a savior and her son will have father. And once her son has a father, Sam will fly back to Palo Alto. Cas will audition for the symphony and travel the state. Dean will be alone again.

By the time his exam is almost over, he feels like he’s been poked and prodded like a test subject. “Lastly, I just want to take a look at your throat.” The women says, taking out a popsicle stick. Dean complies easily, eager to get out of the room and opens his mouth. She presses the wood against his tongue and flashes a light into his mouth. Raising an eyebrow, she pulls out and writes something on her clipboard. “Have you been sick recently, Dean? Your throat is inflamed and seems rather irritated.”

Panic starts to rise in Dean’s chest, the lump building again. He knew the consequences, he wasn’t stupid. Nodding his head, he answers, “I had a pretty bad stomach bug for a while last week. I’m perfectly healthy now, though.” He feels like a teenage girl.

“Alright, I think you’re finished. I’ll inform your brother of the time you need to be here tomorrow morning for the surgery and you’ll be golden.” She smiles again and opens the door for him. He nods and makes his way out as quickly as he can, in an attempt to avoid Sam. For once, he’s successful, letting out a sigh of relief once he’s sitting in the impala.

 

In a sour attempt to distract himself from the ever-growing distance between Kansas and California, Dean had once found himself dissolved into the world of Michael Cunningham. He had been too high to enjoy it, only one line of the novel lodging itself into his brain. _We want everything, don’t we?_

For so long, he had been yearning for his brother to drop everything and come back to him, come back and yell at him for leaving dishes out and bringing random partners home from the club at 2 in the morning. To yell at him to turn his music down because he’s studying and can’t concentrate. To come into his room 52 times and yell. 52 times he would yell. No, he would watch his phone ring 52 times. Dean called him 52 times and Sam didn’t answer. Dean called him 52 times and Sam was across the country and didn’t answer.

It happens too fast for him to realize it. One second, he’s cruising down the street, the next he’s parked crookedly at the pizza place. There are four pies in his passenger seat and he’s going twenty over the speed limit. There’s only four minutes until he’s home but Cas always hears. He always hears and Dean loves him and Cas can’t take it anymore and suddenly the car is on a dirt road. There are no houses or people or cars or anything for miles and he called Sam 52 times.

He’s alone, no one in sight for miles on the road. Cautiously, at first, he takes a bite of one slice of pizza, soaking in the grease and taste of hot cheese and pepperoni. He savors it for a brief second, closing his eyes and holding back a moan. For a moment, he’s a normal person enjoying a slice of pizza, but only for a moment. Seconds later, he’s swallowing the rest of the piece and reaching for another one, hardly even tasting the cheese. It only takes him four minutes to devour the first box, then he’s ripping open the second one and reaching for two slices. Hardly chewing, he manages to practically inhale the four pies in fifteen minutes.

 Feeling as though he may burst, Dean throws down the boxes at his feet and falls to his knees. The dying grass stabs into his palms, crunching under his weight. Inhaling a sharp breath, he shoves a shaky finger into his mouth, forcing the lump in his throat to back down. It hardly takes a brush of the finger against the back of his throat to trigger his gag reflex. Shutting his eyes, Dean listens to his own vomit hitting the field beneath him, and he grimaces. By the time he’s finished, his jeans and jacket are stained and his throat feels like it will burn out of his body. He stumbles trying to get up, and his hands land right in the puddle of what once was pizza. “Fuck,” he curses, and wipes them on his jacket. In the distance, he spots a tractor coming toward him, and he panics, escaping back into the impala.

 

Outside, the street lights are just turning on and the sun is going down over the horizon. Above him, he can hear Cas’ calloused fingers dancing across the fingerboard of his cello, playing the same notes over and over. It’s hard to breathe through his mouth, his throat swollen and sore. His vision begins fading in and out as he tries to draw on a thick wing on his eyelid. Blinking once, twice, Dean finishes and moves on to his lips. He draws them on thicker than usual in an attempt to focus the attention away from his red rimmed eyes.

Castiel holds a long note, filling Dean’s head with the monotone sound while he sucks in his breath as much as he can and starts tightening his corset. It’s the tightest he’s ever pulled it, cinching his 30 inch waist down to an astonishing 24. It digs into his ribs, and it hurts, but that’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Getting ready for the next hour is difficult, and it takes him a solid 10 minutes to put on his nude, stiletto heels. He chooses a tight fitting, tank-top knee length dress with a matching faux fur coat. His platinum blonde, poofy and curly wig sways around him as he leaves for the club, Castiel’s music burning into his brain.

The other queens stare him down when he walks into the back room. Of course they do, he hasn’t been this polished in months. His boss gives him the side eye from his office, but doesn’t say a word. He stares at himself in one of the vanity mirrors. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ In less than twelve hours he would be on a table, his guts cut open for display, for Kate Milligan’s son. But that was Dean Winchester, now, he was Jefferson Slutship.

“You’re on,” someone behind him says, and he can hear the beginning of his first song. He slowly enters the stage, mouthing the words perfectly. Throughout his set, he stuffs flying dollar bills into his chest and his coat. The crowd is larger than usual, many people clinking glasses and cheering him on. His last song comes on, and he steps down to the floor where people are sitting. With a smug look on his face, Dean grabs someone’s glass of who-knows-what and starts chugging it, making the crowd go wild. The first verse begins, and he runs his palm over the laughing man’s face. _“I’ve been a bad, bad girl... I’ve been careless with a delicate man.”_

Sliding off the table, he clutches one hand over his chest, _“and it’s a sad, sad world.”_ He continues the first verse going table to table, running his hand down men’s arms and taking their tips graciously. He heads to the bar and sits on the edge of the counter, _“What I need is a good defense,”_ he lays down on it, the patrons quickly picking up their drinks to save them. _“’Cause I’m feelin’ like a criminal.”_  A man, laughing, shoves a twenty dollar bill into Dean’s chest and winks. _“And I need to be redeemed,”_ Dean mouths, grabbing the man’s cheek and pulling himself up. He swings his legs across the counter and dangles them over in between two costumers. The man runs a large hand down Dean’s side to his padded hips and squeezes hard enough that Dean can feel it through the cushioning. _“To the one I’ve sinned against,”_ tomorrow Dean will save his father so he can raise another boy. _“Because he’s all I ever knew of love,”_ he should have kissed Castiel.

Once his set ends, Dean blows a kiss to the audience and disappears backstage. The other performers eye him up and down when they see how much money he’s packed into his outfit. With a small smirk, Dean grabs his duffel bag and heads out to his car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, Dean pulls out his phone and starts the car. There are several missed calls from Sam and another number that he recognizes. They range from eight pm all the way up to four am, the latest one being Sam’s. There’s a few voicemails, and Dean presses play with a shaking finger.

_“Hey, Dean, listen, we just heard back from the doctor and they’re talking about not doing the surgery tomorrow. Call me back.”_

_“Dean, you seriously need to get down here. The doctors need to talk to you and Dad about the surgery. They said there are complications. I’m not sure what that means.”_

_“Hello, Dean... This is Kate Milligan, your father is... You... There is talk of the surgery not happening. Please, make it here as soon as you can. Thank you.”_

They all go on like that, a surgery not happening... complications... get down as fast as you can. The last one is from Sam, left just minutes ago. Dean presses play and holds his breath, waiting for the same words again. Instead, his brother sounds calmer, as if he’s trying not to disturb someone. _“Dean, hey, uh... so, the docs decided not to go with the surgery, but they won’t tell us why. Kate is freaking out, and her and dad decided to get married tonight, as soon as possible. Insurance and all that I guess. Anyway, we have two witnesses, but dad’s asking for you to be here. Please, just answer.”_

The surgery is off. The surgery is off and his dad is going to die. Kate Milligan is going to marry his dad because he is going to die and the surgery is off. Dean’s breath hitches and suddenly, he feels like he’s drowning in his car. Slamming his heel on the gas, Dean speeds out of the dark club parking lot and heads toward the hospital.

A few cars honk at him as he speeds down the road and runs a few stop signs, but he just keeps going. He parks in the hospital parking lot and starts rushing into the lobby where John Winchester once fell to his knees in agony, her yellow blonde hair bloodied pink and her bright smile torn from his hands. His heels echo in the nearly empty room where he once held a trembling Sam and contained his own cries. In the elevator, he stares at himself in the metal doors, the words from his dream pounding in his head. _It’s hilarious, how you think you’re worth something._

Sam’s waiting at the elevator eagerly when the doors open. His eyebrows raise at Dean’s appearance and he looks away, then straight into Dean’s tired eyes. “Finally, Dean. We’ve been waiting for you to get here. Everyone’s already in the room.” He storms down the hallway to John’s room. Dean follows, but slows down when he sees the silhouettes of several people in the window. He’s almost at the doorway, Sam staring back at him, when he stops.

“Wait,” Dean says, his voice just over a whisper. “Uh, can you give me a second?” He looks over at a nurse standing with a clipboard.

Everyone looks up when Dean walks in, dressed in dark blue scrubs and glitter on his face. John’s weak eyes stare him down, then turn back to Kate. Bobby stands on the other side of the bed, dressed in a suit that looks a little too small for him. He smiles at Dean, but it isn’t filled with joy at all. Sam’s sitting in one of the chairs, next to Cas, who Dean didn’t expect to see. His cello is resting between his legs, and he looks in Dean’s general direction and softly smiles. There’s bandages over his hands and his fingertips, stained with pink, dried up blood. Next to Kate, there’s a small boy with blonde hair and racecar pajamas who can’t be a day over five, falling asleep on her shoulder. Dean assumes this Adam, the son John chose over him.

“Alright,” Bobby says, his voice rugged. “You two are lucky I’m ordained, or you wouldn’t be doing this right now.” He gestures to Kate and John, who grasp hands. Sam taps Cas’ shoulder and he rests his bow against a string, then glides it across, creating a low sound that fills the room. “We gather here today to witness the joining of John Winchester and Kate, uh, Milligan in holy matrimony. They’ve been through hell together, and now it’s time for them to end it together.” Everyone in the room looks down, and Dean stares at his bare feet. “There’s not a whole lot to say here, so... you may now kiss the bride.”

Kate leans down and presses a short kiss on John’s chapped lips. It’s silent for a few moments, aside from the low note resonating from the cello. Cas then breaks out into a moderately paced solo, something Dean’s heard before but can’t quite remember the name of. Everyone listens intently, and John and Kate murmur to each other.

After a few minutes, Bobby sees himself out, but not without giving Dean a stern look. Sam ruffles his greasy, too-long hair and excuses himself when his phone starts to ring. Feeling awkward, Dean walks over to Cas and rests a hand on his shoulder. Cas reaches a hand up and squeezes Dean’s wrist, then places his cello down. Dean pulls Cas out of the room and into the hallway, where they sit in cushioned chairs.

“This was not how I pictured tonight to go.” Castiel says. He slowly leans back in his chair and rests a hand on Dean’s thigh.

“Me neither.” Dean responds, scooting into Cas’ touch. His father had just married the sad, sorry lookalike of _her._ Panic starts building in his chest. The surgery was off and John would be dead and Dean couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Dean, I,” Cas interrupts him from his jumbling thoughts. “I-“

_I should have kissed you,_ Dean thinks, grabbing Cas by the cheeks and pulling him in for a rough kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song used is criminal by fiona apple
> 
> please, i would love to hear, are you interested in perhaps more drag queens? or what are your predictions for the story? im curious. if there's a bad grammar or spelling error, please tell me and i'll fix it. it's 2:30 am.


	6. Tomorrow I'll Miss You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise this came earlier than i expected 
> 
> the song in dean's car is "angel of the morning" by juice newton and the song cas plays is "all of my loving" by the beatles

It had only been 24 hours, but when Dean inhaled the smell of cinnamon, he couldn’t control himself. Instinctively, he runs his hands over Castiel’s shoulders and down his back, pulling him closer until the arm rest in between them stabs into his skin. Wincing, Castiel pulls away and scoots back, but doesn’t let go of Dean’s head in between his hands. They sit like that for a few moments, taking in each other’s musk, the beat of each other’s pulse. Dean lets his head gently fall forward until their foreheads are resting against each other, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to erase the hospital hallway around him.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice echoes in his head, and he wants to ignore it, stay in his little world. Pulling away hesitantly, Dean opens his eyes and turns to see his frazzled brother standing next to a bearded man in scrubs that match the one’s Dean borrowed. “This is Doctor Omundson, the surgeon who was supposed to perform the transplant.”

The man holds a hand out, calloused and nimble. Dean shakes it slowly, staring up at him with narrowed eyebrows. Next to him, Dean can feel Cas squeeze the hand resting on his thigh tighter, a silent assurance. “I know this isn’t an ideal time for us to converse, but permitting both of our jobs, I believe that it’s not an out of the ordinary time to be awake for you.” His cold eyes rest on the pile of padding and fur coat in a chair next to Dean, where he left the remnants of Jefferson Slutship. “If it’s not any trouble, I would like to speak to you and your brother in my office regarding your father’s surgery. Your... friend is welcome to come too, Mr. Winchester.” Cain gestures to Cas, who’s sitting with his head facing down, blank eyes resting on Dean’s knees.

Dean agrees and watches as his brother and the doctor head toward the elevator. He begins to stand, but Castiel’s hand on his thigh stops him. “I’m okay waiting here. This is your family business.” The blind man says, bringing his face up to meet Dean’s.

With a shake of his head, Dean reiterates, “No way, I’m not leaving you by yourself, man.” He grabs Castiel’s hand and pulls, forcing the shorter man to stand with him. “Besides, I need you.” Castiel hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips, before standing up straight and following Dean to the elevator.

While their being carried up multiple floors, Sam breaks the awkward silence by turning to Doctor Omundson.”So, uh, Sir, I’m under the impression that the reason you can’t follow through with the transplant is because something doesn’t match up, right? Liver size is too different, or something?” He sounds frazzled, as if he has too much to say but not enough words.

The surgeon doesn’t look at the younger Winchester, and instead starts walking at a quick pace down a hallway as soon as the elevator doors open. The others follow in hot pursuit, like ducklings following their mother across the street. “You could say something like that,” Doctor Omundson begins in a low tone, “It’s not necessarily the size of your brothers liver. Actually, it’s a perfect fit for your father.” They come up to a small office, empty of any personality except for a photo of a smiling woman with wavy black hair. “Please, sit,” the doctor says, waving his hand at a couch against the wall.

  Sam takes a seat nearest to the window, and pouts his lips when the couch sinks in and his knees come up higher than expected. Dean lets Cas sit down first, watching intently as he grabs onto the armrest and sinks himself down slowly. Noticing a stern look from the bearded doctor, Dean sits quickly, unintentionally leaning into Cas in the process. “So if the liver is perfect for our dad, then why can’t the surgery be performed?” Sam’s voice is desperate, reminding Dean of when he held him in the lobby, when she was gone and with a weak voice, his younger brother asked _why?_

Doctor Omundson clears his throat and straightens his posture, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. “My colleague noticed a few strange findings in Dean,” he looks to the elder Winchester brother, “your evaluation. At first, it was simple, such as your weight being slightly low for your height, leaving you at a BMI of just 18.2. But with your line of work, it’s normal to be on the leaner side. But then, she recorded a low blood pressure, then a slightly slow heartbeat, then a swollen esophagus... These symptoms can suggest a number of possibilities.”

Sam scoots forward and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning in to the doctor. “So, what, Dean has some sort of illness?”

“Well, yes, but not what you’re thinking.” The surgeon responds, giving a solemn look to Dean, who sits with his hands in his lap and his lip tucked under his teeth. “What really pointed us in the right direction were the blood tests. After analyzing them, we came to a conclusion that we wouldn’t be able to go through with the transplant because the liver is not fit to donate.” Sam narrows his eyebrows and turns his head to meet his brother’s gaze, dim. “Dean’s liver is damaged itself; therefore it is unfit for your father to receive it.”

There’s a dead silence in the room, unanswered questions hanging in the air. Dean feels the lump crawling back up his throat, threatening to choke him if he dares to speak. _Pizza. Oreos. Gummy bears. 52 times._ He swallows weakly, his throat burning in protest. Next to him, he can feel Cas stiffen, because no matter how many times they pretended it didn’t happen, it did.

“So, what?” Sam protests, standing up from the low couch with a stifled grunt. “Does Dean need a transplant too? It’s not the same thing as Dad, is it? There’s no way this is genetic, the man drank himself to death.” His voice raises with every word.

The surgeon sighs and looks up to the Winchester brother. “Dean will be fine, as long as he follows our medical advice. The damage is very minor, and nothing to worry about.”

Sam’s shoulders relax, and he looks down for a second before looking back up at the bearded man. “So what is it then?” His voice is weaker, pleading. Dean looks away, through the open door to the vending machine down the hall.

“The only conclusion we could come to, is...” The doctor begins. “Dean,” he says, catching the man’s attention. “You’ve had a lot on your plate recently. Your mother passed years ago, you no longer live with your father, and now your brother has moved halfway across the country. With no one for you to be with, you latched on to other behaviors. Destructive behaviors. At first, they seemed harmless, but then they became an addiction, a way for you to escape yourself.” Dean doesn’t respond to the man, staring blankly at the wall behind him. God, he needs a drink. Or a blunt. Or nachos. “Dean, you force yourself to throw up after you eat, don’t you?”

The words are only said into the stale air, but they echo in Dean’s head, pounding into his head like a jackhammer. It had never been said out loud before, he’d never heard it said so _blatantly._ He knew what he was doing, he knew what it meant, that there was a term for it, but he always told himself that there was nothing wrong. _It’s not a big deal._

Receiving no answer, Doctor Omundson continues. “It’s become an addiction for you, hasn’t it? Binging and purging.” Castiel’s grip tightens.

Staring at his silent older brother, Sam speaks up, “What the hell are you talking about? Dean’s been doing _what?_ ” He looks back at the doctor, then back at Dean, who’s even paler than before.

“Sam,” the doctor says, gaining the younger Winchester’s attention again, “your brother is bulimic.” _It’s not a big deal. There’s nothing wrong. He_ deserves _it._ “His body’s reaction to the extreme behavior has caused liver damage, possible heart damage, and there is no doubt in my mind that his stomach is-“

“I know what it means.” Sam snaps, turning his head back to a paralyzed Dean. His brother’s eyebrows are narrowed, his eyes wide, staring at the wall. “I mean, what? How can... I just... I wasn’t expecting something like this, that’s all. Dean’s doesn’t seem the type, and... Dean?”

“I’m not,” Dean stammers out, weakly, his voice just above a whisper. Taking a deep breath, he shifts his gaze from the wall to his brother. Sam looks defeated, his eyes sunken and mouth agape. “I don’t do that shit, dude.” Dean reassures him, “That’s teenage girl shit. I... There has to be something else. Not _that._ ”

Sam lets out a quick breath and drops his shoulders before turning back to the doctor. “Look, Doctor Omundson, Sir, if Dean isn’t doing that to himself then what’s the reason for-“

“Liar.” Sam’s abruptly interrupted from behind Dean. Cas is sitting up taller, hands on his knees. He’s facing the wall behind the surgeon. “He’s lying. He does it _every day._ ”

Dean shifts away from the blind man, so their knees are no longer touching. “Shut up, Cas.” He huffs, barely loud enough to be understood. He can feel Sam’s glare into the back of his head.

“No, Dean, I am sick of listening to you hurt yourself.” Cas responds, turning his head in the Winchester’s direction. “I hear him, every day, multiple times a day. He purchases copious amounts of food, and he eats it all, and then he forces himself to vomit.” Dean opens his mouth to respond, but closes it again when he hears his brother’s voice.

“Dean, what the hell? How, why did you... Why do you...” His words are choppy and short, as if he’s struggling for breath. “How could _I-_ “

“Shut up.” Dean mutters, standing quickly. His vision blurs slightly, distorting the doctor. Sam continues with unfinished questions, “Shut the fuck up, Sam.” It stops. “I’m fine. This is none of your fucking business.”

“Mr. Winchester, this is serious,” Doctor Omundson says from his desk, “We have an outpatient program here I suggest you invest in. Your insurance should-“

“No.” Dean interrupts, raising his voice. His heart is pounding against his chest at an alarming rate, he can hear his blood rushing to his head, but most of all, he feels like he’s drowning. “I’m fine. Just... leave me the fuck alone,” he spats and dashes out of the room, hands clenched.

“Dean!” Sam pleads and starts after his brother, but a hand grabs onto his wrist and pulls him back.

“Don’t,” Doctor Omundson says, his voice quiet and controlled, calm, “you’ll only make it worse. He will come when he needs to.”

 

His throat is burning against his tongue, as if it will start fire any moment and he will burn from the inside out. The marks on his knuckles are deeper than before, dry blood staining the pale skin clinging to the bone. There’s empty Chinese takeout containers scattered around the impala’s floor beneath him, but the food is in the dumpster behind the restaurant. He stares at the ceiling, eyes bloodshot and heavy, and takes another drag of the blunt in between his fingers. He lets it out slowly, watching as the smoke evaporates out of the window.

The low bass of the car radio vibrates his chest, making him feel light, like a feather floating in the wind. Or maybe it’s the dope, he can’t tell. Not paying attention, he had slipped in one of his mother’s old cassettes, resulting in Juice Newton to blast from the speakers. There’s nothing around him except the endless fields and the edge of a forest area in the distance. _“Just call me angel of the morning, angel,”_ He takes another inhale from the blunt, which is nearly finished, _“Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby.”_

He killed his father.

He fucked up, he took it too far, he stuffed his face too much and now his dad won’t get a liver and he’s going to rot away in a dark room in a crappy hospital bed while Kate Milligan watches and her son goes without a father for the rest of his life. His dad is going to die in the same hospital where _she_ did and it’s his entire fault.

His phone chirps from the front seat, for the umpteenth time since he stormed out of the hospital. With a sigh and disappointed frown because the last of his weed is now gone, he heaves himself up to a sitting position and reaches forward for the device. There are over twenty missed calls, from both Dean and Cas, respectively. “Fuck me,” Dean spats and tosses the phone back into the front of the car. It lands on the floor with a thud. Around the impala, the sun it setting, meaning it’s time for his magical transformation.

 

As he starts drawing on his winged eyeliner, his fingers shake and smear the line. With an annoyed grunt, he wipes his thumb across his eyelid, smearing the line into a smudge out to his temple. Fed up with the process, he colors in his other eyelid and does the same thing, then smears more across the bridge of his nose. _He killed his father._ Knowing that he looks like a raccoon, Dean packs on twice as much eyelashes, then finishing the look with white glitter over the center of his eyelid. _His father is wasting away in the hospital because of him._ He draws on the outline of his lips thicker, more circular than he usually does, trying his best to conceal his face. The lipstick smears on his thumb, causing a line to go down his chin. “Are you fucking kidding me,” Dean spats, fighting the lump in his throat. _Because of him his father is going to die._

He looks up in the mirror, staring at the makeup smeared all over his face. His features are gone, his high cheek bones, the narrow slant of his nose, his eyes are shadowed by the eyelashes. The mirror girl’s voice from his dreamed echoes in his head, _“You really thought that you could be like me?”_

Hesitantly, Dean reaches for his phone and dials his boss. He’s angry, yet again, but gives Dean the night off. Perks to being one of the top performers, he figures. Calmly, Dean places his phone gently on his desk so the screen faces down, and then stands up. Afraid of what he may do, he stumbles into the shower, closing his eyes as the dark makeup streams down his face. Is he crying? He can’t tell. _He killed his father._

“Fuck me,” he states, receiving no response but the rush of the water running down his back. “Fucking... Fuck me.” He raises his voice, hearing it crack at he speaks again, “Fuck me! _Fuck_ me! God damn it, shit, fuck! Fuck!” By the last word, he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. With scream, he backs up into the wall, letting the water spray his face. Gasping for breath, Dean lets his back sink down the tiles until he’s sitting, crouched down with the water bouncing off his neck. “You killed him,” he whispers to himself, “you fucking killed him. You stupid fuck.” The burning of his throat travels down to his heart, as if it’s burning a hole in his chest. The lump in his throat is forcing itself out, threatening to spill out of his mouth. _He called him 52 times and he didn’t answer. He fucked up and now his father is going to die, and it’s his fault because he couldn’t handle being alone. It’s his fault because_

“Dean?”

The voice is unrecognizable, but familiar. It sounds faint, as if the person had just entered his apartment. Their footsteps get closer to the bathroom, uneven, as if their looking around for him. “Dean?” The voice is just outside the bathroom door.

Taking a deep breath, Dean contemplates showing himself, inviting them in, to see him defeated, huddled into himself on the shower floor. How weak he must look, how cowardly, how fucked up he is. He’s still debating when the door creaks open, letting in the cold air that slices into the hot steam of the shower.

 _“Dean.”_ The voice is weaker now, less determined, as if the owner is disappointed in their findings. Slowly, Dean watches as the shower door opens slightly, revealing a white walking stick. “Dean, are you okay?” Cas asks, reaching an arm out, only to be sprayed by the water. “Dean?” His tone becomes more panicked.

“I’m down here, Cas,” Dean croaks out, his voice hoarse from invisible cries. “On the floor.” He watches as an eyelash swirls around the drain, too large to be sucked in.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas whispers, crouching down, nearly losing his balance and falling into the water in the process. He reaches a hand out again, and Dean tells himself not to take it. He tells himself not to because call number 41 ended with him bending over for the blind man in his kitchen to make the feelings go away and he killed his father. Dean takes it anyway.

 

He sits on the wooden floor of Castiel’s apartment, resting his back against the wall, huddled in three different blankets that the blind man swore he had to use. Dean watches as Cas stumbles around, first to get the blankets, then to make coffee with a fancy machine his brother gave him that responds to voice commands, then to call Sam, but Dean didn’t get to hear the call. It amazed him, how someone so awful could be loved by someone so... good. He killed his father.

Watching intently, Dean observes as Cas reaches around the empty room and finds his wooden chair, which stands next to his cello. Instinctively, the blind man swings the instrument up to rest in between his legs and reaches for his bow. He begins with the same low notes that he played in the hospital the night before, but then starts working up and down some scales. The sound rings in Dean’s ears, calming him. Cas had always heard him throwing his guts up, but Dean always heard the way the blind man’s fingers danced across the strings.

Dean has no idea how long Cas had been playing, but it had been long enough that he’d almost zoned out and fallen asleep against the wall. But then, a few of the notes became familiar, then he knew which ones would come next, then he figured out the exact tune. The blind man was playing it much slower, with a lullaby theme, but Dean recognized it. It’s on one of the cassette tapes in his car. Quietly, at first, Dean starts to sing along, but his voice builds more confidence as he continues, until he’s carrying the tune at the slow pace with Castiel.

 _“Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you,”_ there’s a pause between the next line, _“tomorrow I’ll miss you.”_ Dean’s voice is weak, and it sounds as if he swallowed a cup of gravel. Fire paints the walls of his throat, screaming at him to stop. _“Remember I’ll always be true,”_ Cas looks in Dean’s direction, a faint smile on his lips, _“And then while I’m away, I’ll write home every day.”_ The sound resonating from the cello throbs in Dean’s chest, wrapping around him and cushioning him in its warmth, _“And I’ll send all my loving to you.”_

Castiel stops, letting his bow drop to rest the tip of his on top of his foot. His eyes are blank, pale blue, but watery. He listens intently as Dean finishes the song without him, singing without any accompaniment, _“All my loving I will send to you,”_ his raspy voice is soft, disappearing in a slow decrescendo. _“All my loving, darling I’ll be true,”_ Castiel doesn’t know it, but Dean finds himself staring into his blank eyes, _“all my loving, all my loving.”_ He lets a smooth _oh_ hang in the air for a few moments. As the last verse of the song comes up, Castiel, almost too soft for Dean to hear, joins in.

_“All my loving I will send to you.”_

It’s silent in the dim apartment, aside from their soft breathing. Oh, how Dean wants to kiss him. He pushes a blanket off, beginning his new mission. Just as he forces himself up, using the wall for support against his weak limbs, there’s a frantic knock on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feed of comments. i hope my writing style isn't deteriorating to you.


	7. You're Killing Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading my baby i love you

Dean gives Castiel one last glance, the words remaining unsaid, and heads for the door. He opens it to find Sam, his suit jacket gone, revealing a white dress shirt with the buttons uneven and his fly unzipped. The strong scent of beer radiates off him, curling itself around Dean. Castiel winces at the smell, plugging his nose, regretting his heightened senses. Sam grabs onto the door frame and leans on it, looking down at his feet.

“I forgot where my hotel is,” Sam croaks, his voice scratchy and worn, “I left the bar but somehow I just ended up here, and you weren’t home, so...” He looks up at Dean, actually _up_ at him for the first time in years and it reminds Dean of when he used to be his idol, when everything to him was his older brother. “I heard the singing. You used to sing to me, do you remember that?” His words are slurred, like his trying to understand them himself.

“Alright, come on,” Dean sighs, grabbing his younger brother and tucking his arm over the span of his shoulders. He drags Sam through the door and shuts it behind them, then leads him to the kitchen where the taller man plops down on a dining chair. It reminds him of Sam’s first high school party, when he called Dean from Sarah Blake’s house and then cried in the car because he couldn’t focus enough to put the condom on, and she kicked him out. Getting Sam a glass of water, he smiles to himself at the memory.

Castiel wonders in, feeling in front of him for a chair, and sits down across from Sam. “You’re intoxicated,” he states, despite it being the most obvious thing in the room. “Please, don’t vomit on my floor; it would be very difficult for me to clean up.” _Leave it to Cas to set the mood,_ Dean thinks.

Sam laughs under his breath and leans back in the seat. “Don’t... Don’t worry, man. I’m not _that_ drunk,” he stammers out, then laughs again. “Okay, so I’m shitfaced. But that’s not the point here, right now. Right now, I... I’m knowing. I have to know.” Dean places the glass of water in front of the drunk man and he chugs it all down in one go, dripping some on his shirt. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, Sam continues what he was saying, “Why?”

Dean looks at Cas, who’s facing Sam with a stern look on his face. When his brother doesn’t elaborate, he breaks the silence, “why what?” Sam frowns and looks down at the table, analyzing the lines of the wood.

“Why everything? Why is the sky blue? Why do we cry when we’re sad? Why are we here?” Sam asks, more to himself than Dean. “Why do you do it?” His voice is quieter, cautious.

For a few minutes, the room is silent, the only sound the faucet dripping every few seconds with a faint ping. Dean contemplates what to say, trying to decipher exactly how much he should reveal, if he should say anything at all. He doesn’t want to. He wants to go to Burger King and order ten boxes of chicken fries. He should check if they’re in season.

Sam opens his mouth to elaborate, but instead he just heaves forward and vomits all over his white dress shirt and onto his lap, barely missing the kitchen table. There’s puke sticking to his chin when he looks back up at Dean again, grimacing. “Fuck you,” Castiel says, although it sounds flat, like he’s just saying something to remind the brothers that he is still present.

Sighing, Dean reaches into a cabinet and grabs a trash bag, then hands it to his younger brother. “The bathroom’s right there, I’ll bring you clothes to change into,” he mutters. Sam looks at his older brother with wet eyes, the same puppy-dog eyes he grew up doing, then stands up and waddles to the bathroom, careful not to make a mess. He looks back to Cas, who’s sitting with his thumb pressed against his lip. “I need to run down to my apartment to grab him something to wear, I’ll be back.” The blind man just nods, keeping his head faced toward the bathroom, where they can both hear coughing.”

It takes Dean a few minutes to find clothes that look like they’ll fit his massive brother, but he digs out a t-shirt and sweatpants he didn’t think he owned. On the dresser, he can hear his phone vibrating. Skeptically, he reaches for the device and checks the screen. The caller ID is familiar, and he almost doesn’t pick up. Almost.

“Hey, Dean-o, it’s been a few weeks, you didn’t lose interest in Ganja did you? She’s been getting real lonely without the taste of your sweet lips.” The man on the other end lets out a low laugh, and Dean hears the phone shuffling.

“I actually just ran out today, it’s a good thing you called. My plate’s been getting a little too full,” he smiles at his own joke, knowing the man on the other line wouldn’t get it.

“Hey, man, I feel you, had a recent event happen myself. I’ll meet you in our usual spot tomorrow at around 11ish? I’ll even give you the friend discount, if you bring me a box of candy, that is,” Dean can hear the man pop his lips, and figures he’s probably eating candy as they’re speaking.

“It’s a date, then,” Dean answers, grabbing the clothes for his brother and making his way out of the trashed apartment.

By the time he steps back into Castiel’s apartment, the man has turned music on, letting it echo in each room. It’s an orchestral piece that Dean recognizes but could never name. Just as he enters the kitchen and brushes his hand on the blind man’s shoulder, the music erupts with energy, trumpets vibrating the room. As soon as the crescendo starts, it ends, leading into a softer, string instrument feature. There’s a half empty bottle of beer sitting in front of Cas, and it’s tempting for Dean to chug the rest of it, but he refrains and instead heads to the bathroom. The music blocks out any sounds of vomiting, so Dean holds his breath and opens the door slowly.

Sam’s on the floor, his knees tucked under him, in nothing but bright blue boxers. The trash bag of soiled clothing sits next to him, tied shut with a large knot. There’s vomit dried to the side of his mouth, reminding Dean of himself. He shakes the thought and holds the clothes out in front of him. Tentatively, Sam grabs them and nods, immediately slipping the shirt on. Dean leaves, letting the door stay open, and returns to the kitchen. He opens Castiel’s fridge, eyes finding a container of leftover mashed potatoes and steak, presumably from his brother’s restaurant. “Is it cool if I eat this?” He asked, grabbing the container.

Castiel grabs the bottle of beer and downs the rest of it in one go. Standing up, he slams it down on the table, “go ahead,” he spats, stomping to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. The music gets muffled just as the trumpet part begins again.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, shoulders low and eyes half closed. He stops and leans against the wall, watching as Dean places the food in the microwave and pressed the 30 second button. They make eye contact for a second before Sam sits down at the table again, wincing at the empty beer bottle in front of him.  The microwave beeps and Dean gets the food out, not even stopping to grab a fork and instead picking up the meat with his hand.

“Kate’s son Adam is only nine,” Sam starts, his voice hoarse. Dean knows that feeling well. “His father was from a one night stand, and she tried to find him, but had no luck. He plays baseball and Dad takes him to games once a month.” Dean shoves the rest of the steak into his mouth, the piece far too big, but he starts chewing it anyway. “She’s a first grade teacher at his school and she met Dad at a bar during a faculty get-together,” Sam continues, watching with a blank stare as Dean swallows. “I’ve been there every day, all day since I got here and she’s only spoken to me five times.” Sam raises his eyebrows as Dean grabs a handful of potatoes with his bare hand and piles it into his mouth. “But Dad seems to really like her, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes as Dean finishes the potatoes, leaving the container empty. It’s a normal meal, not even close to what he’s used to eating. He wants to raid Cas’ fridge and cupboards for more, but Sam is sitting right in front of him. There’s a yearning deep in his chest for food, for anything, but he pushes it away. Instead, he grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and pops the cap off, downing half of the bottle in one go. Sam closes his eyes and rubs a palm against his forehead, indicating an oncoming headache. The music blasting from Castiel’s room fades out as the song ends, and a short silence rests in the apartment.

Dean huffs and chugs down the rest of his beer, then tosses the bottle away, listening to it land with a soft thud. Sam looks up at him again, watching with a frown as his brother heads for the bathroom, making in there in five long strides. “Dean,” He says, not daring to look behind him. His older brother doesn’t respond, slamming the door behind him. Castiel’s music starts up again, louder, drowning out the sound of his brother’s heaving.

Watching as the streaks of blood swirl down the drain of the toilet, Dean grabs onto the counter and forces himself up. It’s not the first time he scratched his throat, but it had been a while. The mouth wash he gurgles makes his throat burn more, and more blood comes up when he spits it out. He leans on the counter and stares at himself in the mirror, observing the dark circles under his eyes and swollen cheeks.

Sam’s gone when he leaves the bathroom, most likely heading back to his hotel room. With a sigh, Dean slowly opens the door to Castiel’s bedroom, letting the blasting music consume him. The blind man is sitting on his bed, empty syringe next to him. Cautiously, Dean approaches and investigates the bottle on the bedside table, recognizing it as some kind of pain killer they use at hospitals.

“I usually just swallow them, but it’s faster this way,” Castiel says, voice hoarse. His eyes are pink, like he’d been crying. Dean picks up the supplies and places it on the table, then sits down next to him. “Dean, I... I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Me neither,” Dean states, grabbing Castiel’s shaking forearm and guiding him back, so they’re lying next to each other on the bed. He shifts so that he’s on his stomach, head facing away from the other man.

“Off,” Castiel says, loudly, and the music stops. Another one of his fancy gifts from his brother, Dean figures. The blind man slides his hand over to rest on the curve of Dean’s ass, then travels it up under his shirt, letting it press in between his prominent shoulder blades. He’s silent for a few moments, taking in the smooth of Dean’s back, “You’re killing yourself.”

 

Dean wakes up to an empty bed and a cold mug of coffee on the table next to him. He takes a sip, letting the sharp taste seep into his mouth, before standing up and stretching his arms over him. For a moment, he’s just existing, nothing is happening and everything is okay. Then the sound of the cello from the other room washes over him and he remembers that Sam ignored him 52 times and his dad is dying because of him. He checks the time on the alarm clock. 10:36.

He pulls on one of Castiel’s hoodies that he finds on the floor and zips it all the way up, trying to hide the smell of vomit that plagues his shirt. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and he pulls them up while he slips on his converse. Castiel stops playing when he enters the room, listening intently as Dean rushes out.

“My audition is tomorrow,” he says, cutting into the silence. Dean stops at the door, holding it open. “At 2. I’ll text you the address.” The door shuts behind him.

As the pulls up the impala to the park, Dean takes in the sight of children swinging, parents talking, a drum circle is even jamming in the distance. It all seems so _normal,_ yet so foreign. It had been so long since Dean did anything besides his normal routine. He spots who he’s looking for sitting on a bench where no one’s around, of course.

“Whoa, Dean-o, you do one of those crash diets or something? You do not look good,” the short man says, standing up from the bench.

“You look shittier than usual too, Gabriel,” Dean spats back, not bothering to act upon the other man’s held out arms. Instead, he takes a seat on the metal bench and tries not to wince at the chill of the seat through his pants.

The shorter man smirks and takes a seat, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the bag and slyly slides it into Dean’s pocket. With a raised eyebrow, he shifts his hand in the pocket and pulls out a circular stone. “Dude, why do you have rosin in your pocket?”

“What?” Dean replies, “What the hell is rosin?” He takes the stone from the other man and examines it, turning it over to reveal two letters carve into the bottom, _C.N._

“Wait a second,” Gabriel says, taking it back and holding it up against the sun. “What the fuck?” He exclaims, turning to Dean again. “Dude, why the fuck do you have my brother’s rosin in your pocket? How the fuck do you know my brother? He doesn’t know about our whole thing, does he? Why didn’t you tell me you know-“

“Gabriel, calm down, alright?” Dean cuts off the other man and stands up. “I don’t even know what the fuck that is.”

“It’s rosin. It’s what you put on the bow to make it make noise against the string,” Gabriel says, matter-of-factly. When Dean raises an eyebrow, he groans and replies, “My mom made me play the violin when I was a kid. It didn’t stick with me, but it stuck with my brother. Who this,” he holds up the rock, “belongs to. Does _Castiel_ ring a bell?”

Dean curses under his breath and looks away for a second, glancing at a crying child being embraced by their mother, then looks back. “I live in his building. I know the guy.”

Gabriel smirks and crosses his arms, “Yeah, know him well enough to be wearing his jacket out and about.” Dean frowns and gives him a glare. He doesn’t see much resemblance between Gabriel and Castiel, aside from the crinkles that form around his eyes when he smiles. The short man stands up and looks up at Dean, “You must be the asshole he talks about when he gets drunk and calls me.”

“Castiel drunk calls you?” Dean asks, receiving a devilish smile in return.

“He’s hardly ever sober these days, what with the big audition coming up and all,” Lowering his voice, Gabriel continues, “Oh, Gabriel, I could write music about him for hours, days, weeks, months. Oh, Gabriel, the way he moans in bed makes me-“

“Okay, I get it, he talks about me,” Dean spats, shoving Gabriel’s shoulder. Meanwhile, the new dope he’s acquired is burning a hole in his pocket. Dean fishes a $50 bill from his pants pocket and holds it out. Gabriel takes it with a smile and a salute and starts backing up down the sidewalk.

Dean turns around and starts walking back to his car, debating on whether he should smoke or eat. “Wait, Winchester!” he hears Gabriel’s voice from behind him. Sighing, he turns around, seeing the blonde man waving from a distance. “If you fuck my brother up, I’ll fucking kill you!” Dean shrugs and turns back around, smiling at a scowling woman walking a poodle.

 

An hour and a half later, Dean finds himself in the back of his car in the hospital parking lot with five empty boxes of ding dongs next to him, five empty cans of beer, and a blunt in between two fingers. He doesn’t remember getting there, he just remembers ignoring the calls from Sam and Kate and Cas and Bobby and tossing his phone in the back seat. There’s puke on his shoes that splattered when he was purging in the field again, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

As he strides through the parking lot, he starts thinking about the vending machine near John’s room and how much money he still has in his pocket. Kate Milligan might be there but he’s not going to talk to her, she’s just the dollar store version of _her_ and he knows that deep down, his dad doesn’t give two fucks about her. Somehow, he manages to make it all the way up to his father’s floor.

For a few minutes, he stares at the open doorway leading into the dark room. Kate Milligan’s bag is sitting on a chair but she is nowhere in sight. In a haze, Dean saunters up to the doorway, trying to ignore the burning feeling in his throat. John’s half opened eyes shift to him, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean smiles and walks around the bed, collapsing in the chair and leaning his elbows on the mattress. He has so many things to say, so many questions to ask and words to yell, but the lump in his throat is blocking all of them. John’s lips are moving slowly, but Dean can only hear the blood rushing to his head.

“Dean, _Dean,_ ” John’s voice pulls Dean out of his haze. “Jesus kid, what’d you do, drink a whole liquor store?” When Dean was 15 he got drunk for the first time and John pushed him into the wall and smashed the empty beer bottles at his feet. “I guess this is how it is now, huh? It’s my fault,” when Dean was 16 he took the impala to pick up his father from the county jail and one of the police officers gave him pity money that he used to buy weed for the first time. “I made you like this. If I hadn’t... if it wasn’t for me, then maybe you could be sober when we see each other.” When Dean was 19 he sucked Aaron Bass off in a bar bathroom and when John found out he called him a faggot-whore and bruised his ribs. “Oh, God, Mary, I fucked up, didn’t I? If you were here you’d slap me across the face.” When Dean was 22 he dragged a drunken John out of Sam’s graduation party so the nice cheerleader girl from school wouldn’t have to see him.

When Dean was 23 he started dressing up and dancing for strangers because then he wasn’t Dean Winchester anymore and he could be pretty and graceful. When Dean was 24 Sam got accepted into Stanford and they fought and fought and fought for weeks and John smashed a beer bottle into his back because he’s the reason Sam left. When Dean was 25 John met Jefferson Starship and beat him to the ground because with the long blonde wig on he looked too much like _her._ Now Dean’s 26 and he’s killing his father because he isn’t strong enough and he can’t

It’s not until a nurse is pulling him back from the chair and pushing him into the wall that he realizes he’s screaming. With wide eyes, he watches as Doctor Omundson rips open John’s gown and presses the shiny metal to his bare chest. When Dean was 4 his mother and father came home with a shiny new baby in their arms named Sam, and they let Dean hold him on the couch and John kissed the top of his head and told him to be a good little brother. _Clear._ When Dean was 6 he got to see inside the hood of the impala for the first time and his dad showed him what all the parts were named and then his mom made apple pie. _Clear._ When Dean was 8 his mother’s car skid a patch of ice and shot straight into a telephone poll and her hair turned pink and Sam asked him _why?_ and John sunk to his knees in the lobby downstairs. _Time of death, 1:18 pm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like this chapter was slow but yay another character and events 
> 
> i live off of comments i need them to survive 
> 
> also if u have a song you think dean would lip sync i'd love to include it


	8. Lull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this yas gaga

His heart is clawing at his chest, begging to get out, stabbing with sharp, long claws that force themselves through his sternum and grab onto his chest. The lump in his throat crawls out and sits in his mouth, threatening to jump out and onto the floor. He watches everything in slow motion. Kate Milligan is in the doorway, screaming and crying and punching a nurse that’s holding her back while the doctor is unhooking all of the machines from his father’s body, freeing him the monotone flat line.

Dean swallows down the lump into the void of his stomach and watches as Kate Milligan is finally let forward to John’s side, throwing her body over his. Her tears stain the white sheets, seeping into them. It takes Dean a few minutes until he can hear her, the echo of the flat line dissolving from his head. His eyes are burning and his chest is pounding but he cannot bring it in himself to cry. His father died in front of him and he cannot cry, he cannot show emotion because that’s not what men do. That’s not what soldiers do.

His feet feel like dumbbells as he drags them out of the room and down the hall, body weak. What is he supposed to be doing? The vending machine has peanut butter cookies that would be so savory and sweet on his tongue and would come up so easily and you shouldn’t be doing that Mr. Winchester. Dean comes out of his haze and turns his head to meet eyes with Doctor Omundson.

“I know that especially after a moment that you just experienced you will have urges in order to cope, but we both know that acting on these urges is not the right choice.” Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes at the doctor, because he doesn’t understand how _badly_ he needs it. Ignoring the surgeon’s words, Dean presses the number into the vending machine and gets his money out, disappointed that he only has enough for three bags. One of them falls down the machine and he punches in the code again. “Mr. Winchester, hurting yourself isn’t going to fix everything,”

The last pouch of cookies falls to the bottom of the machine and Dean bends over to pick them up. “I don’t care,” he mutters, then looks back up at the doctor, “I can’t fix anything anyway. He’s gone and it’s my fucking fault.” The lump in his throat is back and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep it down. That’s he does these days, isn’t it? Forces the lump down with food and hopes that it doesn’t come back up with it?

“Mr. Winchester, you have a serious mental disorder that you can’t control, it’s not your fault your father died. Please, I urge that you join our outpatient program. It includes therapy, nutrition specialists, and full-“

Dean walks away from the doctor, shutting out the conversation and clutching the cookies to his chest. He felt like a teenage girl, just another slap in the face to his father. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ Kate Milligan’s cries echo behind him as the elevator doors open, revealing his brother in the same clothes he loaned him the day before. They stare at each other for a moment, until the doors start closing again and Sam stops them with his palm. For a brief moment, the younger Winchester looks behind him, through the open door, at Kate Milligan and the sheet over their father’s body.

Then Dean’s arms are full of Sam, making him drop the cookies at his feet. His too-long hair is greasy and knotty and smells like cigarettes and his arms are too long and wrap around his back tightly and he can’t move his hands because it’s been _so long._ Slowly, Dean reaches one hand up and lets it rest on his brother’s matted hair, then strokes it down to the base of his neck. His other hand remains paralyzed for a second, and then he wraps it around the span of his back. The lump in his throat is growing because when did Sam get so _big?_

No words are spoken, and the hospital hallway disappears from around them and for the first time since Dean can remember, it’s just Dean and Sam. Suddenly, he’s 8 years old in the lobby again with a shivering young Sam in his arms, and he’s whispering _it’ll be okay, it’ll be fine._ Time passes by, but Dean can’t tell how much, it’s only when Sam pulls away that he realizes any went by.

“Dean,” Sam starts, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, “Dean, listen to me.” The elder Winchester looks up at his brother, his eyes wide. He’d never felt so vulnerable before, especially when he was supposed to be the tough one. “Dean, this isn’t your fault. Dad...” Sam takes a deep breath, “Dad did this to himself. Who knows how much he drank over the years? It’s... It’s just...” another breath, “it’s not your fault.” Sam’s voice breaks, and Dean tries not to think about how his shoulder is wet.

Except it is his fault, because if he wasn’t a pussy and if he could deal with his problems normally and if he could suck it up then his father wouldn’t be dead. The cookies at his feet feel too far away and Sam is getting too heavy and Kate Milligan is still crying and it’s his fault.

Kate Milligan comes over, her eyes red rimmed from tears and her skin pale. She softly smiles at the brothers, sliding her hands up and down her forearms. “He’s going to be moved soon,” she stammers out, “I... I want you to know that you can call me anytime and... we can talk about the memorial tomorrow.” She leaves in a hurry, arms wrapped around herself and more tears threatening to spill.

Taking a shaky breath, inhaling the faint smell of gasoline and vomit from his brother, Sam stands up straighter and wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. Dean crouches down and picks up the cookies with vigor. As he stands up again, the room goes sideways and he sways backward, his legs weak. Sam’s eyes widen and he grabs Dean’s forearm and pulls him forward so he doesn’t fall.

“Dude, are you okay?” He has the same worried look his face that he did in the doctor’s office.

“I’m fine,” Dean states, his vision fixing itself, “I just got a little dizzy.”

Sam grimaces and looks down for a second, before looking back up. “Dean, look, I... I emailed all my professors and they agreed to let me continue my course work online. I’m moving out of the hotel and back in with you until this whole...” he looks his brother up and down, “thing gets stable.”

Dean narrows his eyebrows and frowns, “the hell you’re not. Not after how badly you wanted to move out in the first place.” They fought for three weeks. He called him 52 times.

With a sigh, Sam continues, “Dean, have you looked at yourself lately? You’re _sick._ And don’t think I don’t know what you’re going to do with those,” he gestures to the cookies that Dean’s clutching to his chest for dear life, “look, you’re my brother and I love you. And now...” he swallows and looks behind his older brother and into the room again, “I can’t lose you too.” Dean’s heart feels like it’s going to tear through his chest. Giving his brother one last look, Dean steps to the side and gets into the elevator.

 

It’s not until he swallows the last bite of cookie that it really hits him. His father is _dead._ He died in front of Dean. He died right there in front of Dean and he couldn’t fix it because he fucked up and now his father is _dead._ The peanut butter from the cookies is clogged in his throat and he can’t breathe. In front of him, the road spins in and out of vision and the yellow line is swerving. His head pounds, screaming at him to get a grip because this isn’t what men do. Taking a sharp inhale, Dean’s eyesight refocuses and his takes a left into the apartment building parking lot. Ignoring the newly-wedded couple who wave at him with smiles, Dean stalks up the stairs.

His fridge is empty aside from a half-eaten sandwich with mold spreading across the top. “Fuck it,” he mutters and grabs the green sandwich, not wasting a breath before taking a bite. The taste stings his tongue, making him feel nauseous, but he finishes it off anyway. Above him, he can hear Castiel’s cello echoing in the room, the same one that played while his father and Kate Milligan said their vows. But that doesn’t matter now, because he’s dead and it’s Dean’s fault.

Whimpering, Dean rushes out of his apartment, leaving the door open behind him and takes the stairs two steps at a time. As always, Castiel left the door unlocked because he has too much faith in people. When Dean steps in, the music stops.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, louder than necessary. He placed his bow through the f-holes of his instrument and sets it down next to him. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Cas,” He replies, passing the blind man and opening the fridge door. There are all kinds of leftovers from his brother’s restaurant, pasta, bread, cake. Dean reaches in and grabs as many containers as he can and pries one open, revealing a few slices of pizza.

The blind man makes his way over and puts a hand on the open fridge door. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“What does it fucking look like I’m doing?” Dean spats, shoving a slice of pizza into his mouth and hardly chewing it before swallowing. “Sorry, what does it _sound_ like I’m doing?” He knows he shouldn’t have said that but in the back of his mind he has a hope that if he can get Cas angry enough, he’ll never want to see him again.

Castiel closes the fridge and steps forward, reaching out for Dean. He rests his hand on the other man’s shoulder just as he grabs a handful of spaghetti and piles it into his mouth, “Dean, please. You don’t have to do this.” He pleads, eager to break through to him.

Shaking away from Castiel’s touch, Dean finishes off the pasta and moves onto the cake, grabbing a handful. “Shut up,” he mumbles, muffled from the chocolate, “I have to do it, Cas.”

Grimacing, Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Call Sam Winchester,” he says, and the phone’s voice responds. He listens to Dean dig through the cake one last time before shuffling out of the room.

The chocolate cake mixes with the tomato sauce covering his hands, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care. He hardly even tastes anything, he just piles it into his mouth over and over until he feels like he’s about to burst. Pizza. Pasta. Cake. He called Sam 52 times. PizzaPastaCake. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot. PizzaPastaCake._ He killed his father. _Get it out get it out get it out get it out._

Just as Castiel comes into the room again, Dean rushes to the bathroom and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t even wait until his on his knees to shove his fingers into his throat. As soon as they hit the flesh, he heaves and everything starts coming back up. Coughing, he slowly crouches down until he’s knelt over the toilet, his fingers tightly clutching the edge of the toilet seat. He presses his other hand to his stomach and presses until it’s gone and he feels high.

 

For a while, Dean just sits there, head buried in the toilet bowl and vomit staining his chin. It’s peaceful, quiet, the calm before the storm. He checks the time on his phone, deleting the nine missed calls from Sam, and sighs at the fact that his set starts in two hours. Forcing himself out of the bathroom, Dean glances at his swollen face in the mirror.

Sam and Castiel are sitting at the kitchen table, empty beer bottles in front of them. No words are spoken, the tension still calm. Dean looks into Sam’s eyes, the bright, forest green faded from the alcohol. It’s funny to him, how similar, yet so different they are. Sam, the over-achiever, the scholar, the one in control of his life. Dean practically raised him, yet somehow he ended up being the failure between them.

The words go unsaid as he looks away and makes his way out of the apartment, throat burning a hole in his flesh.

 

He knows that he looks lifeless, that he’s making less money than usual, and that it’s making his boss angry with him. The wavy, bright yellow wig he slipped on last minute swings around him as the song ends, and then the audience erupts in applause. He’s on the edge of the stage, his body half hanging off after an attempt to be sexy that ended up showing off how fatigued he is. The black brassiere hangs off of him, slightly loose around the middle, exposing the sponges stuffed into it. People are ordering more drinks, and Dean knows that he has to keep them entertained or his job is on the line. As he stands up, he grabs a sponge from his top and uses it to pat his face and reset his makeup, earning a laugh from the audience.

Then the next song begins in an erupt of string instruments, reminding him of blue eyes and cold hands. He sways in place for a second during the first verse, the lights spinning in front of him, then he’s backing up and lip-syncing along, _“papa I know you’re going to be upset, cause I was always your little girl.”_ Men don’t wear dresses or heels or wigs or 50 pounds of makeup . _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ As the first verse continues, Dean turns around and flashes the audience with a brief lift of his skater skirt, and they cheer him on.

_“We’re in an awful mess, and I don’t mean maybe-please,”_ he’s forced Cas to listen to him hate himself every day and now he’s probably going to leave him. If he didn’t fuck up his father would still be alive and Sam would have answered his calls and Cas wouldn’t be broken. They are all in the water with him, and he’s the one hanging onto their ankles, weighing them down. A regular costumer grabs onto his sides as he grinds down on the man’s lap, mouthing _“Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep.”_ He winks as the man places a 20 dollar bill in between his drawn on breasts. The rest of the song continues in a similar manner, with him collecting the rest of the money from patrons and sitting in stranger’s laps.

_“I know, I’m keeping my baby,”_ the song fades out and the crowd laughs when Dean grabs onto his bare stomach as if he’s pregnant, his fingers digging into the faint lines of his ribcage. The lights fade to black and he shuffles off the stage, dizzy and sore. The lights of the vanities the other queens are using blind him, and he grabs onto the wall to catch his balance for a second. Shaking his head, he continues, grabbing his duffel bag and opening the door to the back parking lot.

Someone is leaning on his car hood, with their arms crossed. “I caught the last few songs,” they say, “you were way better than I thought you’d be. But, I’ve never really seen you dance before, so...” Dean’s vision refocuses. Sam.

“What do you want?” Dean mutters, unlocking the car and opening the driver’s side to throw his bag in. _He’s leaving again. He doesn’t care. He ignored you 52 times._

“Look, Dean,” Sam starts, his voice wary and cautious, like he’s defusing a bomb, “I know how much you hate it, but, we’re gonna have to talk about it eventually.”

Dean rolls his eyes and blows a piece of hair from in front of his eyes, “Talk about what? What is there to talk about? I feel like things are pretty straight forward, Sammy.”

Sam blanches and looks down for a second, then back up at his brother. He has the puppy-dog face from their childhood that makes Dean’s heart ache in his chest. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Sammy in years.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean looks away, his brother’s face becoming too much, “you always complained about it like a little bitch, so.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Sam responds, his tone lighter, the unsaid words pushed back for another time. Tonight, the storm will subside. “It’s almost four a.m. and that diner near my hotel is open...”

Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Butter. Orange juice. Waffles. Doughnuts. Sausage. “I’ll meet you there,” Dean replies, and puts the impala in drive.

 

They sit in silence at the table, the only other patrons a businessman reading a newspaper and nursing a mug of coffee and a group of teenagers who have already ordered five plates of fries. Dean’s on his third mug of black coffee, staring down at the shiny yellow table in between them. When the waitress came by, Sam barked out what they “both” wanted and she was gone before Dean could object. Dean picks at the glue on his nails, remanence of Jefferson Slutship. He didn’t want to eat in drag, opting to shed everything for a t-shirt and jeans and a quick wipe-down of his makeup. Glitter still dots around his eyes and his cheeks are still contoured, but no one is staring at him.

“What the fuck, dude?” Dean questions, quiet, not daring to look his brother in the eyes. “I don’t even know what you ordered me. I can order for myself.”

“No you can’t,” Sam argues, pouring another packet of cream into his coffee. “I did some research, Dean. I knew you’d order something huge and then... you know.” Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Butter. Orange juice. Waffles. Doughnuts. Sausage. Dean doesn’t respond and makes himself busy with his coffee.

The waitress comes by and places their food down with a smile, earning a small thank you from Sam. Dean looks down at his plate, inspecting it. On one side there’s two fried eggs and three small sausages, and the other side is completely covered in hash browns. Sam starts digging in immediately, letting his fork slide across the plate. The sound rings in Dean’s ears, the squeaking taking over his brain. Hesitantly, he grabs his fork, stabs one of the sausages, shoving the whole thing in his mouth in one bite. Sam raises his eyebrows and sips his coffee, watching intently.

The grease in Dean’s mouth feels like nectar from the great Gods of binging and he doesn’t even use his fork to grab the next sausage. The haze it starting, taking over his mind, clouding his vision. Just as he’s about to grab the last piece of meat, Sam pulls the plate away with a worried look. Without words, Dean watches as he piles the last sausage, one egg, and half the hash browns onto his plate. He pushes it back slowly, with a blank stare.

Dean grabs the fork again and cuts into the egg, watching as the yolk spills over to the potatoes. He brings it up to his mouth, and chews, tasting the grease and letting it stew in his mouth for a second before swallowing. It feels foreign, like he’s never chewed food with the intent to taste before. He finishes the meal the same, soaking in every bite and savoring it as if it were his last. Sam finishes before he does, calling the waitress over to take his plate. Dean watches as the leftovers disappear into the kitchen.

By the time he finishes, the plate scraped clean, the too-full feeling is taking over his body, his mind. _Get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out._ He chugs the remaining half of his coffee and starts tapping his foot. Outside, the sun is rising, illuminating his car. Just as he’s about to get up and seek out the bathroom, Sam requests more coffee from the waitress.

“We have time,” Sam says, his voice back to its previously cautious tone. “You’re fine, Dean. Let yourself have this.” He takes a sip of his coffee, “you’re getting through this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean spats, but stays seated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u i love u   
> the song is papa don't preach by madonna   
> i love feedback   
> do you have any characters you really want to be drag queens? bc i plan on incorporating a few. leave a comment.


	9. It's a Piece, Not a Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will be going on a hiatus for about two weeks because im going on vacation and bringing my laptop would be a hassle. but you can expect updates again every few days after that :) my twitter is @peachykeendean if you want to hmu 
> 
> songs are crimson and clover by joan jett and sonata in b minor solo cello op. 8 by zoltan kodaly

The screaming can be heard from the parking lot. Dean and Sam look at each other for a brief moment before rushing up the two flights of stairs to Castiel’s apartment. The door is cracked open, revealing another person. Sam narrows his eyebrows in confusion, but Dean knows exactly who it is and pushes open the door.

“Cas, dude, chill! Jesus Christ, dude, fucking chill!” Gabriel’s yelling a string of profanities, trying to calm his brother down. Dean looks away from him, his gaze resting on the floor where multiple shards of broken plates mix with what seems to be his entire silverware drawer.

Another plates shatters, coming close to Dean’s boots. “I can’t do it, Gabriel! I’m going to fail and I’ll never make the symphony! I’m going to fail mother again, and I don’t think I can do it one more time!” This time a bowl shatters, scattering across the floor. “I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it-“

“Cas,” Dean yells over the other man, and his ranting stops mid sentence. “Cas, listen, you need to calm down.”

“Dean?” Castiel puts down the bowl in his hand and turns his head toward the Winchesters, his blank eyes resting on Dean.

“Yeah, it’s me man,” Dean replies and cautiously walks forward, careful not to step on any shards of dishes. He reaches forward and grabs Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him in for a tight hug, aware of the stares from his brother and his drug dealer. The blind man presses his forehead into Dean’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of vomit and weed. It’s not pleasant, but it’s something he’s come to associate with him.

“So one hug from this dweeb and you’re fine but you won’t listen to your own brother? That’s cold, Cassie,” Gabriel complains, breaking the comfortable silence. Sam glares at him, but only earns a smile back.

“Shut up,” Dean spats over his shoulder. He pulls away and grabs Castiel’s forearm, “clean this up,” he says, glaring at Gabriel before dragging Castiel behind him and into the man’s bedroom. Castiel starts blabbing again as soon as the door closes, but Dean interrupts him, “Cas, Cas, buddy, calm down man, you’re fine,” he says, grabbing his shoulders and stilling them. The most worked up he’d ever seen Cas was when he took one too many caffeine pills and was practically bouncing off the walls.

“You don’t understand, Dean,” Castiel pleads, looking down at the floor, “if I fail this audition, my mother will disown me. My music career is the only thing she still values from me, I can’t mess it up, I-“

“Cas, shut the fuck up,” Dean barks, and the man looks back up. “You’re more than what your mother thinks. Fuck what your mother thinks,” he can feel Castiel’s heart pounding against his chest, a quick beat, “You’re gonna audition for this gig and you’re gonna get it because _you_ worked your ass off, keeping me and Sam up all night. Don’t let us lose sleep in vain, man, or you’re a shitty person.”

Castiel laughs under his breath, “it’s not a gig. It’s called a symphony.”

With a smile, Dean mutters back, “I know,” before bringing his lips down to Castiel’s in a chaste kiss. He can feel the blind man’s trembling hands against his chest, no doubt running with the speed he pretended he never noticed on the counter. They separate for a second, both taking in the feel of each other, their heartbeats, before bringing their lips together again. Dean brings his hand up to cup the back of Castiel’s head, the soft hair tickling his fingers. He smiles as Castiel brings his hands up to rest on Dean’s shoulders and tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

There’s a knock on the door, and the two men pull apart just in time for Gabriel to stick his head in, smirking, “Oh, am I interrupting something? You guys need a condom? I think I have one in my-“

“Gabriel,” Castiel snaps, hands clenching on Dean’s shoulders, “what do you want?”

The blonde man’s smile falters, “We gotta get going if you want to practice in the auditorium before the big audition, kiddo.”

Frowning, Castiel hesitantly releases Dean from his grip and guides himself to the door. Dean watches as Gabriel grabs his brother’s forearm and hooks it around his, seemingly by instinct. “Knock ‘em dead, Cas,” he says, and the brunette turns around, “I’ll get a front row seat.”

 

As soon as they get down to the apartment, Sam slams the door and starts kicking the food wrappers and boxes around. Dean watches, his sore throat burning at the look of them. “I can’t believe you’ve been living like this, Dean,” his brother says, carefully stepping over containers to get to the kitchen cabinet. He pulls out a box of trash bags and places them on the table, “there’s no way I’m living like this. Let’s start grabbing everything and putting in these so they can go out to the dumpster.”

Dean reluctantly walks further into the room, staring at the garbage. He watches grimly as Sam starts piling the empty chip bags and pastry containers into a trash bag, his stomach churning at the sight. The garbage had become normal to him, reminding him of his lack of self-control. Of _why_ he did it. Sam fills up the first bag, lastly throwing in an empty box of macaroni, and Dean _whimpers._

Looking up, his younger brother raises an eyebrow, “Dude, are you okay?” He puts the bag by the door and grabs another one. Dean nods and backs up into the wall, sucking in a sharp breath. “Dean, talk to me.”

“I’m fine, dude, it’s just trash. It just reminds me of everything.” Dean grimaces and wraps his arms around his stomach before sinking down to the floor, sitting on a box that once held cherry pie.

Sam places the bag on the counter and walks over, kneeling down and resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Dean, talk to me.”

The elder Winchester shakes his head and looks down. His hands clutch tighter into his flesh, his nails digging into his ribs. “My stomach hurts like a bitch, alright? Fuck,” he groans in pain and looks up again. “It’s been too long since I, you know...” Confused, Sam doesn’t respond and waits for Dean to elaborate. Rolling his eyes at his brother’s misunderstanding, Dean continues, “I can’t remember the last time I kept something down. Happy?”

Sam’s face falls and his hand slides off of Dean’s shoulder, coming to rest on his knee instead. He looks around him, at all of the empty containers, eyes scanning over the labels. “You mean, none of these... you didn’t actually eat any of these?” Letting go of Dean’s knee, Sam falls back and sits, crushing a pizza box beneath his weight. “Everything in here?” His breathing hitches, getting shallower and he speaks, “Oh my god. I didn’t even realize... I thought...”

If his stomach wasn’t in so much pain Dean knows that he would feel his chest coiling into itself at the sight of his brother, who he has disappointed yet again, on the verge of tears because of him. Because that’s what he does. He fucks up, and leaves everyone else in shambles. He’s deadweight. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Dean watching as Sam observes more of the trash and gets lost in his own thoughts.

“I didn’t realize how sick you were,” Sam starts again, looking back to his brother. “I figured you were throwing up what you were eating, like the other day, but... I thought you were eating, too. Not just... Not doing all of this,” he gestures to the room around them. He shakes his head again and looks up at the ceiling. “God, this is all my fault.”

“None of it is your fault, Sam,” Dean replies, staring at his brother’s neck, his eyes running over a red mark partially hidden by his shirt, “I’m the only who fucked up. If it wasn’t for me, dad would still fucking be alive. If I hadn’t just sucked it up and stopped, he be living and breathing in that fucking hospital bed right now and Kate Milligan’s son would have a father.”

Sam looks back at his brother, this time his eyebrows narrowed in anger, “that’s the biggest mound of bullshit I’ve ever heard, Dean,” he raises his voice with every word. “It’s not your fault that Dad drank himself into oblivion every night. It’s not your fault he fucked up his liver because he was a fucking alcoholic asshole. It’s not your fault he couldn’t cope with mom’s death and fucked up his children in the process.” Dean winces at the mention of her, unused to it being said out loud. Angrily, Sam reaches under him and grabs the pizza box, crushing it with his hands before tossing it across the room. He sits up on his knees and leans forward, grabbing Dean by the shoulders with both of his hands, “and it’s not your fucking fault the bastard died.”

Dean can feel the lump in his throat threatening to crawl out, to jump out of his mouth and onto the floor. He shakes Sam’s hands off and pushes his little brother back, watching as he falls into a pile of candy wrappers. “That’s easy for you to say,” Dean spats, swallowing the lump back down. “You’ve never fucked up this bad, Sam. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, huh? Get a B on a test? You don’t understand this,” he grabs an empty box of doughnuts and holds it up, “you’ll _never_ understand this.” Shaking, Dean forces himself to stand up and starts walking to the door.

Sam’s up in a second, grabbing his brother by the arm and pulling him back. “How do you know I don’t understand this, Dean?” He yells, and Dean pulls away from him again, but doesn’t move. “How do you know I don’t understand what it feels like to have the void? The void that you try to fill with something, anything. But none of it fucking works because no matter how much shit you fill it with, it always gets deeper and deeper until you’re too far gone, like Dad.” Dean doesn’t respond, just stares at his brother’s heaving chest.

It’s silent for a moment, and Dean realizes that that was it. The storm is over, just as fast as it happened. No buildings were blown down; no trees crashed into roofs, there weren’t any civilian casualties. Dean takes a deep breath and turns around again, briefly checking the oven clock. They had an hour before they had to leave to catch Castiel’s audition.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, his voice calm and monotone, as if his outburst never happened. They’re pretending, again, because it’s the only part of their routine that isn’t broken.

“To my car,” Dean says, opening the door, “I need to get high. I’ll be back.”

 

He smashes the remainder of the blunt under his shoe on the parking lot asphalt, the feeling of flight overriding whatever anger that was building in his chest before. The newlywed couple smiles at him again, watching as he forces himself up the stairs. He doesn’t smile back. When he opens the apartment door, all the trash is almost gone, thrown into the many full trash bags sitting against the wall. Reluctantly, Dean starts picking up some boxes and piles them into the half-full trash bag sitting on the counter. Sam looks at him, his expression stoic, and they finish in silence.

As they carry the bags out to the dumpster, Dean’s the one to break the silence, but he doesn’t dare look his brother in the eyes. “What do you do?” He asks, throwing a bag into the depths of the dumpster. Sam throws a bag in and gives him a confused look. “What do you do to fill the emptiness?”

With a sigh, Sam throws the last bag in. “I proposed to Jess,” he says, and Dean opens his mouth to congratulate him, because he’d heard so many things about her from their dad. Perfect Jess and her perfect blonde hair and her perfect smile. The other half to Sam’s future apple-pie life. Sam continues before Dean can say anything, “we haven’t set a date yet, but she’s already checking out dresses. God, she’s so perfect, Dean. She looks just like Mom.”

They get back to the apartment and Dean starts washing his hands, so Cas doesn’t smell the garbage on him after his audition. “Sounds like you’ve got a white-picket fence and 2.5 kids ahead of you in the future, so what’s the problem?” He feels proud of his brother, thankful that at least one of them will get what their mother wanted.

Sam leans on the counter and runs his hands through his hair, pushing loose strands from his eyes. “I can’t stop cheating on her, Dean,” his voice breaks, and he rubs his palms over his eyes. Dean stares at him, watching intently as Sam continues. “I love her so much, she’s everything to me. I’d kill for her, I’d die for her. But I just... I don’t even know how many women there’s been. I can’t stop. I don’t know why, but I just can’t stop.” He chokes out a shaky breath and his eyes become wet, but he wipes the tears away before they can fall.

Dean doesn’t know if he should rub his hand over Sam’s shoulder or pull him into a tight hug because it’s been so long that he doesn’t remember what to do. He sighs and rests his hands on the counter, noticing how much larger it looks when it’s not covered in trash. “You’re just waiting for her to find out and let you go, so she can hurt you, and then you’ll have some sort of validation for hating yourself.” Sam looks up, his eyes pink rimmed. He’s giving Dean the same puppy-dog look he gave him every time Dean said that the bruises on his arms weren’t from their drunken father or that he’d eaten dinner too. “That’s it, isn’t it? You try and fill the void with whatever, and hurt the one’s you love, but you know in reality it’s never going away. You know that you’ll always feel empty, no matter what, so you’re looking for some sort of fucking reason why to make you stop feeling like shit.”

Tears begin roll down Sam’s face and he looks at Dean for a second before biting his bottom lip and looking away again. Dean grabs his keys off the counter and they walk about together, silent until he puts in one of their mother’s cassettes.

 

The auditorium is larger than Dean anticipated. Wooden columns engraved with angelic figures tower up to the ceiling, leading to a mural of music notes and silhouettes of musicians. Spotlights dot around the painting, turned off, dimming the room so only one shines on the empty stage. The Winchester’s find seats in the front row just as footsteps come from behind them. Dean turns around and meets Gabriel’s gaze, who looks like he’s so high he’ll start floating away any moment. He receives a dopey smile in return, and watches as the short man plops down in the seat across the aisle from him. A woman dressed in a fitted suit with a bun so tight it has to be pulling her skin into place sits next to Gabriel, frown lines prominent around her mouth. Dean realizes that she must be the woman Castiel is so adamant on impressing. His mother. Her eyes are a stone cold blue, sending chills down Dean’s spine. He imagines that if things were different, Castiel’s would be the same.

His attention is pulled away from the woman when a man walks onto the stage, a chair in one hand and Castiel’s forearm in another. He sets the chair facing the empty rows of seats and then guides Castiel in front of it. The blind man nods in thanks and sits down, positioning his cello in between his legs.

“Castiel Novak, a graduate of the Juilliard School in Manhattan, New York City,” a voice booms from a speaker and Dean looks up to see a group of people sitting in a balcony. The judges, he presumes. “He has arranged for us an original arrangement of multiple pieces,” _not a song._ “You may begin, Mr. Novak.”

Dean doesn’t realize he’s on the edge of his seat until he nearly falls forward when Cas plays the first note. It’s long, starting with two strings then dissolving into one. He shakes his hand up and down in a fast vibrato and the familiar warmth of his playing surrounds Dean in a tight embrace. Then Castiel’s off, his fingers dancing along the fingerboard in a manner so fast Dean didn’t think it was possible. It only lasts for a minute before he’s moving to the lowest string and then bouncing higher a few times and breaking into a slower piece. Dean hears a gasp from next to him and looks over to spot Castiel’s mother on the edge of her seat like he is, a smile on her face. Her son’s fingers travel to the lowest string again and the deep sound resonates in Dean’s chest. He figures that this part of the audition is something she recognizes, and he looks back when the notes travel up an octave. For a few minutes Dean just listens until Cas ends with two strings vibrating against his bow and then moves on to something slower.

It takes a second to register in Dean’s mind, but then he recognizes the chords. The lump in his throat is there suddenly, wanting to crawl out. He thinks back to the first time he showed it to Castiel, the first time the cellist ever corrected Dean.

_“Yeah, if I’m not such a sweet thing,” Dean sings along, trying not to laugh, “I wanna do everything,” he jumps up and sits on Castiel’s lap, straddling him, “what a beautiful feeling.” He laughs and grabs the blunt from in between Castiel’s chapped lips, pulling the man in for a rough kiss. “Crimson and clover,” the smoke trickles out of his mouth and fades out around Cas, who laughs and pulls Dean in forcefully closer by the hips, “over and over.” They explore each other’s mouths as the song fades out in a guitar riff and the vocal dies off. “You should play that song on your cello, Cas,” Dean says, kissing down the blind man’s neck to suck on his collar bone._

_“There’s no vocals in cello music, Dean, it would be a piece, not a song.”_

The fast paced notes bounce of Castiel’s cello, repeating the guitar riff they listen to so long ago. Dean remembers his bruised lips, the sweet buzz of the weed. He looks over and sees Castiel’s mother, who looks horrified, angrily sinking into her seat and crossing her arms. Gabriel smiles at the ceiling, looking completely out of it. Castiel ends, the last notes resonating into the wooden room.

There’s no clapping, just the man from the balcony’s voice booming a thank you and then Dean and Sam shuffle out of the theater. Dean follows the signs and finds himself backstage, finding Cas zipping up the case for his instrument. “Hey, what d’you know? It’s Yo mama in the flesh.” He jokes, stepping up in front of the blind man.

Castiel stands up, his body facing Dean, and smiles. “His name is Yo-Yo Ma, and I did not play any of his music. The main piece was composed by Zoltan Kodaly,” Dean brings a hand to the small of Castiel’s back and brings him close so that their chests are touching. “It’s my mother’s favorite, I knew she would be proud if-“ Dean cuts him off with a chaste kiss on the edge of his mouth. “If I-“

“Castiel.” The voice is stern, making the two men freeze in place. Dean turns his head slowly to look, and gets the chills down his spine again. “I must speak to you.”

The blind man frowns against Dean’s skin and pulls away, squeezing his shoulder for a second before planting a soft kiss on his stubbly cheek. “I will see you when I get home, Dean,” he says and lets go.

 

Back in the apartment, Dean and Sam find themselves sitting at the newly clean counter, takeout containers in front of them. Sam’s busy smothering his burger in mustard to notice, but Dean’s eyeing the food, his mouth practically watering at the grease piled up under the fries. He feels it deepening, the void, and he has to fill it until it’s overflowing because then it will never go away. He starts slow, taking one thick fry and letting it rest on his tongue for a minute before swallowing.

Then it’s all downhill, as soon as Sam looks away he grabs a handful and shoves it into his mouth, moaning at the grease staining his taste buds. Sam watches in horror as he swallows the handful and grabs another one. Before Sam can snatch the container away, Dean grabs the burger and starts piling it into his mouth, practically inhaling it until it’s gone in a matter of seconds.

“Dean, please, you’re just going to hurt yourself,” Sam pleas, standing up and walking over to his brother. “You can control this, Dean.” The elder Winchester ignores him and rushes over to the sink, turning the water on full blast and ducking his head into the spray, desperately taking in as much water as he can. “Dean, come on. Dean, it was only one meal, it wasn’t even that much calories. Think about this morning, you’ll be fine, you’ll-“he’s cut off by a loud crash from above him, followed by a thud. Dean stops, letting the water running down his chin for a moment before shooting up and giving Sam a look.

Together, they bound up the stairs and find Castiel’s apartment door ajar. Dean pushes it open and his knees nearly give out at the site. There’s broken glass everywhere in the small kitchen, scattered among dots of blood. Castiel’s crouched in the middle of the floor, the skin around his eyes covered in thin cuts. “Cas?” Dean chokes out, running forward and kneeling in the glass, uncaring of the sharp pain in his knee. “Cas, buddy, what’s wrong?”

The blind man chokes something out, but it’s muffled as he sobs, falling back against the cabinet. Blood drips down his cheek, dripping onto his white dress shirt. Dean watches with wide eyes and he bangs the back of his head against the cabinet a few times.

“Cas? Cas!” Dean pleas, grabbing the musician’s shoulders and shaking him. “Cas, it’s me. What’s wrong? Why are you doing this?” He receives the same answer, not understanding. Instead, Castiel’s sobs grow quieter and quieter, words being said but not comprehendible. He pulls him in close, holding his head again his chest, feeling his shirt soak up a warm liquid he isn’t sure is blood or tears.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is wary from above, and Dean tears his eyes away from the gory site to see his younger brother holding up an empty orange bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading i love you. 
> 
> i live off of comments and feedback. like literally i might die without them.


	10. So Sad, So Sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long but I've been on vacation and didn't bring my laptop. Also, my laptop is broken so I had to restart this chapter on my mom's computer. But don't worry, this story is officially back and running. 
> 
> the chapter name is based on "so sad, so sad," by varsity

                The pasty white bandages covering Castiel’s eyes don’t do anything to distract Dean from the sight in his head. Swollen, dark red marks tracing down his blood stained skin flash across Dean’s mind, mixing in with the pleads and cries and red and blue lights and the orange bottle. The second orange bottle that the blind man got from God knows where, that he probably didn’t even know what was. The second time Dean felt those three words at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out.

 

                He can feel the lump coming back up, clogging his throat. It’s getting closer and closer to escaping, exposing what lies deep within him, the part of him that not even he wants to see. _The void,_ Sam had called it. And right now, Dean could feel the familiar ache in his chest, begging for whatever he could get his hands on to fill it.

 

                But what if Cas wakes up? What if he wakes up and Dean’s not there and he’s alone in his room, wondering what happened? Where he is?

 

                All of his questions are answered when his frazzled and pink-eyed drug dealer storms into the room, yelling into the cell phone he was pinned in between his ear and shoulder. “Look, from the information I have gathered, those sons of bitches are too lazy to compensate for Cassie’s… err… handicap. Fucked up, I know, I’m pretty sure Mom wants to sue or some shit.” He piles a handful of Thin Mints into his mouth and sits down in the plastic chair across the bed from his younger brother, propping his feet up on the edge of it. “No I will not watch my fucking language, Mikey, you know that’s how I roll, man, you’ve known me my whole fuckin’ life what do you want me to do? Oh, shit, sorry.” Dean watches as the short man swallows the candy and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Oh, yeah, he’s fine. Well, physically anyway. Stomach pumped and everything.”

               

                When he feels the blind man stir next to him, Dean drowns out Gabriel’s loud conversation. His hope fades away when nothing happens, and instead Castiel lets out a soft breath. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket with a text from Sam indicating that he finished cleaning up the mess from Castiel’s apartment. As soon as he looks up again, he meets eye contact with the soft hazel of the older Novak.

 

                They sit in silence for a moment, staring each other down. Gabriel looks away first, gazing at his still brother, the heart monitor beating at a moderate pace. “Well,” he starts, turning his head back to Dean, “I got drugs and candy and he’s not waking up any time soon.”

 

               

                And so Dean finds himself sitting against the curb of the hospital parking lot with an empty bag of gummy bears in front of him and his veins numb. Next to him, Gabriel’s finishing off the last of the licorice, although Dean had surprised him by piling six strings into his mouth at once. He can feel it screaming at him, begging him to make himself feel empty again. But his weak legs won’t pick him up, they won’t move him from the hard cement digging into his back.

 

                “Dude, I don’t think I’ll ever get over black beauty,” Gabriel says, piling the trash together in front of him. “Makes me feel so damn _good._ ”

 

                Dean chuckles under his breath and inhales sharply, holding his breath for a second before letting it out slowly. The lump in his throat starts crawling up, eager to escape and splat onto the cement in front of him. Slowly, Dean pulls himself up and crookedly stands, nearly losing his footing. “I… I gotta, gotta get it out,” he mumbles, not really to anyone, even himself.

 

                “What?” Gabriel questions, although he doesn’t notice Dean stumbling onto the grass behind the parking lot and making his way to the street. It’s empty, given the time in the early morning, the sun not even beginning to appear over the horizon. “I need like… acid or something, man? Do you have acid?” He turns around and stares at Dean for a second, who’s standing at the edge of the sidewalk, unmoving. For a second, he squints his eyes in confusion, but then shakes his head and stands up, leaving the wrappers to be run over by someone. With a shrug, the blonde man turns back around and starts strolling down the lot, muttering under his breath. “I bet Kali has acid. That bitch is crazy.”

 

                Bringing a hand to his protruding stomach, Dean gulps down the lump and looks once, twice, three times for oncoming cars, but there’s not even a headlight in the distance. It feels like a disappointment and for a second Dean imagines falling forward, exposing himself in the bright lights of a speeding car, completely numbing the voices and knocking the lump right out of him. But then his mind is plagued by orange bottles and bloody eyes and Kate Milligan and then Dean can’t hold it in anymore.

 

                His feet tread against the asphalt and he stumbles across the empty street, already bringing his fingers up to his mouth. In the darkness, he doesn’t see the curb and trips over it, landing with a loud thud on his knees on the dead grass on the other side of the street. He shuts his eyes as the smooth feeling of vomit streams over the top of his hand and splashes in front of him.

 

                As he coughs and presses his finger further into the back of his throat, he imagines her, the pink-haired, perfect, pure girl from the mirror. She smiles at him and presses two smooth fingers into her mouth, the bright red lipstick clinging to her full lips not even smearing slightly. Pink, shiny ooze starts dripping out of her mouth and down her chin, staining her white gown. Dean watches in awe as the liquid shifts into an array of color, and she smiles against her fingers.

 

                Suddenly, the mirror shatters and the girl and her pretty pink hair and bright smile are gone and Dean’s forearms are wet and his throat is burning with the taste of metallic. Blinking once, twice, he recomposes himself and waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He’s hunched over, his shaking arms barely holding him up, skin covered in stomach acid and the remains of the candy. His throat is swelling up, throbbing against himself and he struggles to take a deep breath.

 

                It’s completely silent, not a car or person in sight to watch as he forces himself up, ignoring the squelching noise his arms make. His heart pounds against his chest, as if it’s trying to break out and he figures that the pills are somewhere in front of him, hidden among the colorful candy because he no longer feels numb. The void deep inside him is begging for more, clawing at him from the inside, screaming for him to fill it up again, but there’s nothing, no more to give.

 

                Pink scratch marks and orange bottles and the steady beat of the heart monitor override his mind, bringing the lump back up. With a torn cry, Dean reaches his hands into the pile in front of him until he finds what he’s looking for: a wilted, color-faded gummy bear that he didn’t have to sense to chew. Hesitantly, he brings it up to stare at for a second before sliding it into his mouth, ignoring the sharp taste and forcing it down, pushing the lump down with it. He digs through again, and brings every sad looking piece of candy up to his mouth and forces them down, the taste mixing with the blood and making him feel nauseas without the help of his fingers.

 

                Just as he brings the last bear up to his mouth, squishing it between his fingers, he lurches forward and heaves, feeling it all come back up a second time. He doesn’t realize that vomit isn’t the only thing falling into the grass until he wipes his swollen, pink eyes and feels his wet skin. With another heave, he leans forward and waits, but the lump clogs his throat, the void satisfied for now. Inhaling a sharp breath that feels like razors against his throat, he leans back and brings himself to sit on his knees. The vomit staining his arms dried, leaving a crusty remanence of the candy.

 

                He sits there in silence, a cool breeze slightly ruffling his hair and brushing his shirt against the growing crevices in between his ribs and the sharp corners of his shoulder blades that frame the faint lumps of his vertebrae. The silence washes over him in waves, calming him, helping him forget. Just as he sucks in a deep breath, filling his empty body, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He doesn’t answer, just forces himself up when he sees the familiar 650.

 

                Slowly, Dean brings the phone up to his ear and croaks out a sound that can hopefully be interpreted as a greeting. He listens as Sam sighs into the speaker, and imagines him running his fingers through his too-long hair. “Dean, where the hell are you? I just got back to Cas’ room and you and his brother are gone. You aren’t at a club or something are you?”

 

                Dean wants to laugh. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he chokes out, every word feeling like a thousand razors scraping against his throat.

 

               

                When Dean walks into the room, he feels Sam’s glare immediately, watching as it’s replaced with worry. His brother sighs again, and leans against the wall, watching as Dean sits in the chair on the side of Castiel’s bed, not sparing him a glance. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dean,” Sam spats and storms out of the room, leaving Dean to listen to the heart monitor and pretend that he doesn’t look like he held his breath for ten minutes.

 

                Two minutes later, Sam’s back with a wet cloth. He doesn’t even offer it to Dean and instead immediately grabs his brother’s shaky arm and holds it out, washing off the vomit himself. It reminds Dean of the time when Sam got in a fight in second grade and beat the other kid to a pulp because he was picking on another student, and he had to wash off the blood staining his skin from the bloody nose the bully gave him in the last second of the brawl.

 

                Just as Sam finishes wiping Dean off, a nurse stands in the doorway, holding out a dry towel with a small smile. Sam smiles back and takes it from her, turning around to dry Dean off gently, as if he’s made of glass.

 

Oh, how he wishes he were made of glass.

 

 Dean watches as Sam returns the towels to the nurse, who smiles again, and softly says, “my shift is over in ten.” Sam says something back that Dean can’t make out, but he assumes that he doesn’t want to know. The nurse winks and leaves the room, leaving the brothers alone with the unconscious man. Frowning, Sam looks at Dean once more, before following the woman in scrubs.

 

As soon as he’s left in silence again, Dean feels the burning in his start to die down and the soft ache of the void creeping back. The bandages over Castiel’s eyes are the last thing he sees before dissolving into a peaceful, deep sleep, the top of his head brushing against the blind man’s side.

 

 

“Dean?”

 

The deep, scratchy voice echoes in his head, the only sound in the pitch black.

 

“Dean, is that you?”

 

His eyes flutters open to see Cas with his head turned just enough that his soft, messy dark hair brushes against Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, Cas, it’s me.” He observes as the blind man’s expression dissolves into a calm composure.

 

“I didn’t make the symphony.”

 

“I know.”

 

“They don’t like that I’m blind.”

 

“I know.”

 

They sit silently, their breathing shallow in anticipation for what happens next, for the unspoken words and lingering touches and their never ending game of pretend. Castiel shifts, turning his head to face the ceiling. Breaking the silence, he says, “You smell like vomit.”

 

Dean huffs and sits up, pulling away from the bed. “And you tried to kill yourself for the second time in a week. We all make mistakes.”

 

Castiel doesn’t respond for a moment, letting the tension linger. Dean’s about to get up and leave when he speaks, this time his voice rougher. “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I just wanted to sleep for a long time. I… I don’t want to die.”

 

And here it comes, the lump climbing up his throat and the itching feeling of the void prickling at his skin. There’s nothing to fill it, and it’s _hungry._ “Keep telling yourself that,” Dean mutters, standing up. Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but Dean cuts him off and continues. “No one ‘accidentally’ OD’s twice in one week, Cas. You try to pretend that you’re all perfect and okay, but in reality, you’re nothing inside.” He receives no response. “Think about it, Cas. If you were standing in the middle of the road, and a bus started speeding down the street, would you move out of the way?”

 

Furrowing his eyebrows together, Cas slowly sits up in his bed, the needles in his arms shifting slightly. “Well you’re no better, Dean. What the hell do you think you’re doing to yourself every day? You act like everything’s fine, that you’re doing nothing wrong, but you’re all kinds of fucked up, just like me. And I...” He trails off, shrinking into himself.

 

“You what, Cas? Huh?” Dean knows that he’s on thin ice, that they both are. But he wants to egg it on for all it’s worth, push Cas as far away as possible so that he can’t stop the _feeling._

 

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Castiel says, his voice cracking. “I can’t stand knowing that you’re destroying yourself.”

 

Here it comes, the final blow. The last punch before he’s done and gone, and his faded blue eyes and bloody fingers are just a faint memory to be replaced by pizza and cookies and whiskey.

 

“Dean, I… I need you to know, just in case… that…” the blind man takes another breath and turns his head in Dean’s general direction, missing the mark by an inch or two. “I love you.”

 

It’s not until his chest is yelling at him that Dean realizes he stopped breathing.

 

“But I, I’m…” Dean starts, his voice cracking and the lump sliding back down. “Cas, I’m just a… you can’t… I’m poison.” He pleads, continuing before Castiel can respond. “I ruin everything I touch, Cas. I’m no good. You’re already fucked up because of me, I can’t just sit on my ass and wait for everything to finally go over the edge.”

 

Castiel shakes his head and turns his head to face down. Slowly, he reaches up and dips a finger under one of the bandages, tearing off the medical tape from his skin gently. Dean watches with sunken eyes, his heart pounding against his chest. By the time Cas gets the second bandage off, he’s on the edge of his chair, chewing on a finger nail. Turning his head toward Dean, Castiel breaks the silence, “I was fucked up far before I met you, Dean. But I believe that the only positive thing to come out of my failure to appease my mother and join the symphony has been that… I would to spend more time with you, now that I have it.”

 

Hesitantly, Dean reaches forward and cups Castiel’s rough cheek in his palm, feeling the stubble scrape across his skin. The pads of his fingers brush against the scabbed up wounds, tracing the lines that Castiel scratched onto his own face in an attempt to get back at his biology, to punish himself for the flaw that he can’t control. The words are back, on the tip of Dean’s tongue, begging, pleading for him to say them.

 

The heart monitor echoes in his head as he leans forward and presses his lips softly against Castiel’s, just barely touching. He takes a sharp breath, and whispers just barely loud enough to be heard, “I love you too.” He feels the blind man squeeze his hand, a motion he’d grown to love.

 

 

It feels like a huge weight was lifted off of his chest, making him feel lighter as he strides across the lobby, pointedly not looking at the chairs where he waited for the news with a young Sam in his arms. His throat still burns and his eyes and cheeks are still swollen, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

 

Until he spots a familiar face standing in front of his car.

 

Everything in him tells him to turn around, to run away, to get the fuck out because he can feel the void start to expand, to want more. But somehow, he manages to tread to the parked car, although he doesn’t dare look the man in the eyes.

 

“Well, you look like shit,” Bobby says. Despite the comment being derogatory, worry still lines his voice.

 

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately,” Dean mutters, making sure that he’s far enough away from the older man so that he doesn’t try to hug him, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop the lump from coming up. They stand in silence for a minute, and Dean tries to ignore the way Bobby looks him up and down, observing how baggy his clothes have become and the sharpness of his cheek bones.

 

“Sam called me last night, told me about your… problem… and Dean, I…”

 

“Save it,” Dean barks, feeling his veins start pulsing in anger, in fear. “I don’t need your pity party. I get enough of that from him.” He looks away, choosing to instead admire the fading parking lines.

 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Bobby explains, and Dean looks back up, instantly regretting it when his eyes rest upon the dark under his eyes and the way his eyebrows curve in worry. “I came to apologize. For not taking you in, like I should have. For not doing something about your old man sooner.”

 

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. “Right, because poor little Dean. Poor little Dean’s daddy didn’t give a shit about him, and now you feel guilty and think that it’s your place to apologize. That it’s your fault.”

 

“Dean, don’t you go turning this around on me,” Bobby demands, his voice getting more stern. “I should have done more for you, and I didn’t, and now look where that got you. You’re sick because of it.”

 

“Are you kidding me? You too?” Dean questions, flailing his arms out to the side in emphasis. “First Sam, then Dad, and now you? God, what the fuck?” Bobby starts to respond, but Dean cuts him off, stepping closer to the old man. “Why does everyone blame themselves?” His voice is wavering, and he knows that soon enough the tears will start falling, exposing his interior. “It’s not about you!” Dean’s yelling now, his voice echoing off the cars around him. “Okay? It’s not about you.”

 

Bobby grimaces and steps forward with his arms out, but Dean backs up and brings his own arms around his chest. “Dean…”

 

“It’s about me, okay? It’s about me, and my stupid head, and my stupid body. Why don’t you people get that? You haven’t even known for a day and you’re already making assumptions about it. Why can you just leave me alone?”

 

The older man shakes his head and looks away for a moment to regain his composure before turning back. “Dean, we’re worried that you’re going to- “

 

“No,” Dean interrupts him, “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say anything.” He unlocks the car and rushes to the door in three quick steps, staying as far away from Bobby as possible. “I fucking quit,” he says, still not daring to look the other man in the eyes. “You can find another mechanic.”

 

“Dean, just listen to me. You’re under- “

 

“Fuck you,” Dean spats and gets in the car, not bothering to look before he’s backing up and speeding out of the parking lot, purposely not looking in the rear view mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if it seemed slow. 
> 
> i live off of comments and feedback tbh
> 
> thank you for reading!!!


	11. Berry Cherry Bubblegum Blast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is blackbird by the beatles 
> 
> i always feel like the chapters aren't long enough but maybe it's because the website stretches it out idk

 

The music blares, vibrating deep in his chest as he speeds 30 over the speed limit down the dirt road, nothing in front of him but the open road and corn that goes for miles. He lost track of which street he turned into, which backway he’s on, how far he is from the highway, how far he is from Sam and Bobby and Cas. All of his cash is gone, stuffed somewhere at the apartment, but he’s afraid of what lies there. Will Bobby be waiting for him, guilt ridden? Will Sam be there wallowing in his own self-pity because the nurse didn’t smell like her? Or will it be empty, because no one cares as much as they say they do.

That’s Dean’s biggest fear.

As the song ends, so does the cassette, so he takes it out and pops in another one, not paying attention to its label. He recognizes the guitar immediately, his phone slamming on the breaks, and the impala skids forward a few feet before stopping in a hard jolt. He stares blankly ahead, eyes dusting over the beige road and pale blue sky. Just as the lyrics start, he reaches up to his temple, brushing his fingers over the faint scar there.

 

_“Dean?” Sam says, his voice faint, barely there, but present. He’s holding a wad of toilet paper up to his nose in an attempt to stop the blood that’s smeared over his hands and the front of his shirt. As soon as his older brother sees him, he watches as Dean’s expression shifts from confused to plain._

_The older boy narrows his eyebrows and crouches down to get level with his brother, the smell of metallic prominent. He feels his chest contract in anger, in fear, in worry. “Tell me why he did this to you,” he mutters, his voice low, but still packed with heat._

_Sam grimaces and looks away for a second, observing their neighbors rose bushes before looking back at his brother. “Dean, look, it’s my fault, I-“_

_“Tell me why he fucking did this to you, Sam.” Dean’s eyes shift, the bright green fading into a darker shade that reminds Sam of the dark forests in the fairy tales under his bed._

_After taking a deep breath, Sam speaks again. “We were arguing about school and how he never comes to any of the assemblies, or the science fair. And how he didn’t even say anything when I told him I got team captain in mathletes. I got upset, and I said that he doesn’t care like he should, and how Brady’s dad always tells him good job, and that he’s not a good dad.”_

_With a shake of his head, Dean stands up again and puts his hands on his hips. “Christ, Sammy. You couldn’t have waited until I got home? You know I’m the one who handles him when he starts drinking.”_

_“He’s always drinking.” There’s a moment of silence, where they both just look down at the concrete. “You don’t ‘handle’ him, Dean.” Sam mutters, bringing his knees up to his chest. “You just let him hurt you so he doesn’t hurt me. It’s not fair.”_

_“Life ain’t fair, Sammy. Stay out here.” Sam watches as Dean rolls down the sleeves to his sweatshirt, and heads inside through the front door, puffing his chest out. It’s the first time that Sam thinks that maybe this time, this one time, he won’t let their dad push him around._

_Their dad is sitting on the couch, an empty six-pack sitting on the table in front of him. His arms are spread out, resting on the top of the cushions. When Dean spots the blood staining his knuckles, the ache in his chest turns to fire._

_“What the fuck is wrong with you, old man?” Dean spats, staring John down with a dark glare. When he receives no answer, he continues, raising his voice. “You don’t get to hit him like that. You will never have the right to treat him like that.”_

_After looking his son up and down for a few seconds, John stands up, nearly falling over again when he straightens his legs out. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think that his veins were filled with beer. “Where were you, boy? Don’t say study group because I know that’s bullshit. If you studied, maybe your grades wouldn’t be so shitty. So where were you?” Silence. With a huff, John continues. “You were at that faggot’s house again weren’t you? What’s his name? I forget. But I’m sure you’ve been saying it a lot, haven’t you?”_

_Dean shifts in place, switching his weight from foot to foot. “You don’t hit Sammy. You never hit Sammy, you always-“_

_“Don’t change the subject, “John starts moving closer, his pace slow, unhurried. Because he knows. He knows that no matter how slow he walks, if he falls on his face or not, that Dean isn’t going to move. Because if he moves, he knows who will get it instead. “I can see the rug burn on your cheek. Don’t try to hide it. I didn’t raise you like that.”_

_‘You didn’t raise me at all,’ Dean wants to say. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them back._

_“You don’t control me. Shut the fuck up. I do what I want. I’m in charge, here, Dean.” As soon as John makes it to his son, he grabs his forearm, bruising him through the sleeve and yanks him forward. “I will do what I want. You don’t tell me what to do.” With the last word he twists Dean around, holding him by the side of his neck and his arm. Next, he pushes him forward, heading toward the wall._

_“Dad!” Dean pleas, because it never gets this serious. It’s always a punch to the gut, a grab of the wrist. “Dad, please!” John stops for a moment, before slamming Dean forward, watching as his head bounces of the wall and he lets go. Dean slides down the wall to his knees, blood already dripping down his face._

_Immediately, John backs up, his eyes widening. “Fuck,” he mumbles, looking around for the phone. “Fucking, fuck. Shit.” He finds it on the counter and starts typing in the number just as Sam opens the front door._

_“Oh my God, Dean!” He exclaims, falling to his knees and pulling his brother up so that he can see his face. Blood stains the palm of his hand and his eyes widen. “Dean, are you okay? Dean?”_

_Dean mumbles something and opens his eyes. Sam blurs into vision, distracting him from the dull pain in the side of his head. “Sammy? I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He tries to get up, but feels something coming up, and he’s turning around and puking all over the floor at his knees._

_John hangs up the phone and starts panicking again. “Fuck. Oh God, Mary, what did I do? Fucking shit. Oh, God.” He mumbles, pacing around the kitchen._

_“Dean?” Sam asks again. His brother spits once and turns around, the blood dripping down his cheek to his neck. “Dean, everything’s gonna be okay. Just stay awake.” With a nod, Dean leans back to rest his head against the wall, feeling Sam’s hands grasp his shoulders. Everything’s starting to fade again. “Dean, stay with me. Remember when Mom used to sing when we got hurt?” Dean nods, shutting his eyes again. “Dean, come on. Dean.” He opens his eyes, focusing on Sam’s. He can hear his father talking to himself in the kitchen, a mix of curse words and prayers to his dead wife. “Okay, um… Blackbird singing in the dead of night,” his voice is soft, “take these broken wings and learn to fly.” Dean closes his eyes again. “All your life,” Sam’s voice is getting more distant with every word. “You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”_

 

 _“Blackbird singing in the dead of night,”_ Dean sings along softly, his voice hardly heard by himself, _“take these sunken eyes and learn to see.”_ As the song the continues, he looks around and figures out where he is before turning the car around and heading for the apartment.

As he cruises down the road, Sam’s voice fills his head, his head throbbing with every word. _“Blackbird fly, into the light of a dark black night.”_

This time, the newlyweds don’t pay him any mind as he passes them going up the stairs, having finally learned that he will never return their waves. His legs feel like jelly under him and he has to stop at the top of the staircase to catch himself for a moment. Trying his best to ignore the blur in his vision, he stumbles down the hallway to his door. It’s unlocked, which Dean is thankful for because he has no idea where his keys are. His eyes zero in on the pink bra slung over the couch.

He starts digging through the couch, feeling around until he finds what he’s looking for. With a sigh, he picks up one of the many lighters laying around the abandoned bongs and rolling paper in the corner and lights the end of the cigarette. Just as he finishes taking a long drag, inhaling the warmth deep into his lungs, Sam walks in. His too-long hair is strewn in various places and a series of hickeys can be seen just above the collar of his Stanford t-shirt.

“I didn’t know you smoked cigarettes,” he says, his tone only slightly concerned.

“I didn’t know you were into nurses,” Dean replies, his expression snide.

Sam looks down at the bra and picks it up hesitantly, before holding it out. “I, uh… maybe… do you want this? For your, uh… job?”

Dean shakes his head and inhales more smoke. “I don’t take hand-me-downs from one night stands. I’m a classy bitch.” They both laugh, briefly. For a second, everything is light. Sam puts the garment down in front of him, his expression changing to pained, guilty. Because Jessica Moore is perfect and everything anyone could ever need with her shiny blonde hair and her smile that makes it feel like the sun never set.

Years ago Dean would have pulled his brother into his chest, petted his hair and told him everything would be okay. But the smell of vomit and cigarette smoke doesn’t mix well with rubber gloves and cheap perfume. “I have weed,” he says.

 

“Dude, I swear, there’s aliens in Pasadena. Like, for real, straight up ET shit,” Sam says, staring at the lit blunt in between his fingers. He analyzes it for a second, watching as the smoke trickles up before passing it over to his brother.

As he reaches out and grabs the paper, Dean laughs and shakes his head. “Whatever, Mulder,” he presses the end of the joint in between his lips, holding his breath for a second before exhaling. They sit silently, each in their own drug-faded mind.

“Hey,” Sam says, seeming to surprise himself. Dean looks up at him and holds out the blunt, but his brother just shakes his head. “How did Dad find out about… your job? He didn’t like, show up at the gay bar, right? Because that’d be hilarious.”

Sighing, Dean takes another hit before putting the joint out in between his fingers. “I was getting ready for a gig and he just let himself in, asking something about getting a free oil change. It wasn’t hard to figure it out, considering I was in the middle of doing my makeup and the clothes were on the bed.”

Sam wants to reach out and rest his hand on his brother’s shoulder, but he’s too far away both physically and mentally. He thinks back to their childhood, the way purple bruises were always scattered across his arms, the way he’d shrink in his clothes whenever their dad went out for a few days and didn’t leave enough food for the both of them, the way he stood in between them whenever John raised his voice, whether he was yelling at Dean or not. That Dean was the strongest person Sam knew. He idolized him, he only felt safe around him. But that Dean’s gone, having into the black hole deep inside him long ago. Maybe Sam did too, the second he packed his bags. “So, why Jefferson Starship?” he asks, unknowing if he’s treading somewhere he shouldn’t.

Dean shrugs. “It’s Jefferson _Slutship._ And because I secretly like shitty music, and I like taking it in the-“

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have asked that,” Sam interrupts, his ears turning pink. They’re both silent for a second before bursting out in laughter for the first time in years. It feels like opening a closed wound, like it’s all starting to come out again. They’re restarting.

“You know…” Dean starts, but stops himself from continuing. “Never mind.”

“Now you have to tell me,” Sam retorts, sitting up taller.

“Forget it. You’ll say no.”

“You don’t know that. Now you really have to tell me.”

Sighing, Dean turns to look at his brother. “You have sculpted cheek bones and a high brow bone. They’re perfect for contouring.” Sam’s expression changes to one of confusion, and he doesn’t respond, instead choosing to stare at his brother. “Dude, I want to do your makeup.”

A week ago, Sam would have never believed any like that would ever happen. “Sure, why not? Just don’t make me look like Kylie Jenner or something.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?” Sam nods. “Well first you gotta shave, man. Ladies don’t have stubble.”

“Alright, I guess we’re really doing this then,” Sam says, standing up. “Is the stuff still in the bathroom?” Dean nods, watching Sam walk down the hallway before getting up to head to his bedroom. He opens his closet and starts digging through clothes that got too big for him and wigs he forgot he had. Under all of it he finds a few stray items and collects them into a pile.

Just as he grabs his bag of brushes and starts walking back out, Sam’s voice comes from the bathroom. “Are you sure?” Dean almost answers, but then he hears something again. “So it’s… mine? I have a… wow. I… Okay. Fuck. Okay.”

The bag of brushes falls to his feet, landing with a soft thud. Dean feels his chest tightening up, because it sounds like Sam has a baby. Is it with Jessica? It has to be with Jessica because she’s perfect and blonde and cute and they’re engaged and Sam loves her. But then Dean thinks about the pink bra sitting on his couch. The pink bra that belongs to the nurse who had brown hair and smelled like saline and rubber and is most certainly not Jessica. What if it’s not with Jessica? Then again he could be talking about something completely different. Maybe he was on an online auction. Maybe he won a vacation to Hawaii. Maybe he-

Sam opens the bathroom door and watches as Dean quickly bends down and picks up the bag before rushing down the hallway. He follows slowly behind with a raised eyebrow. By the time he reaches the living room Dean’s already on the couch, sorting through the things he accumulated. “So… How is this gonna work?”

“Just sit down and I’ll… I’ll start.” Dean doesn’t know if he should bring it up or not. Maybe a year ago he would, but he can’t now. Not when there’s an itch under his skin and his stomach is growling and his throat is burning and talking feels like taking a long walk off a short pier. As he starts opening everything he starts regretting ever come back to the apartment because things aren’t okay and they’ll never be okay again and he doesn’t understand why he keeps acting like they are. Why everyone keeps acting like they are.

His father is dead because of him and he’s not even planning the funeral. Kate Milligan is planning the funeral for a man she hardly knew because he thought she resembled _her_ and all Dean’s done is feel sorry for himself and eat too much. What does she even know about John?

He smears dots of foundation all over Sam’s face before blending them in with his thumbs gently, and Sam squeezes his eyes together. Everything’s autopilot from there until it’s time to choose the lipstick color. “I don’t even remember what colors these are,” he says. “I haven’t used them in a while.”

“I thought you did this all the time,” Sam retorts, still squinting under the fake eyelashes.  He hadn’t had trouble with any of it really, until Dean decided to glue fucking _umbrellas_ to his eyelids. At least that’s what it feels like.

Dean snorts and opens them, exposing two different shades of pink. “You thought that I was gonna use my good shit on your ugly mug?” They both laugh, but it just feels hollow in Dean’s chest. Not real. “This is _berry cherry bubblegum blast._ ” He holds up a light, soft pink lipstick, letting Sam see it before pressing it to his lips. “It’s matte, so it’ll match your eyeshadow.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“You’re not gonna look like a 14-year-old girl before homecoming.”

Sam nods, like he understands, and smears his lips together to smooth out the color. Without words, he picks up his phone and opens the front camera. “Oh my God,” he whispers before bursting into a fit of laughter. Dean follows suit, laughing full bodied and deep, despite the growing itch in his veins and the burn in his throat.

“You kind of look like Julie Newmar circa _Evils of the Night,_ ” Dean says, but Sam just shakes his head in confusion and continues laughing.

“Man, I got to send some pictures to Jess. She’s gonna laugh her ass off.” He gets up, taking his phone with him, along with the chance for Dean to ask the question. The question already digging at him, chiseling into his chest, digging for the guilt or fear or anger or confusion or whatever he hides there.

Maybe that’s what it is. The silence he basks in so frequently, because the void deep inside him that feeds off of pizza and ice cream and potato chips, is what makes the voices in his head come to life. He never liked being alone. Not until solitude meant he could stuff his body full and then purge out the feelings.

His cell phone ringing in his pocket interrupts him from his thoughts. Slowly, he takes it out, almost missing the call. “Hello?” he mumbles.

“Dean? Dean, please help me.”

Sitting up, Dean makes his voice clearer. “Cas? What’s wrong? Where are you?” In the background he can hear cars passing by and the wind blowing into the speaker.

“I don’t know, I… My mother took me off the insurance, and I can’t afford to stay in the hospital without so I had to leave.” The panic in his voice is evident, growing with each gust of wind. “I thought I could use my GPS to walk home but it’s at my house, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay, okay, calm down, I’m on my way,” he stands up and starts looking for his keys, finding them in his jacket pocket. “Cas, you’re gonna be fine. Do you have any idea where you are?”

After a few seconds, the blind man answers, “I can hear the Taco Bell drive-thru.”

 

Turns out Cas somehow made it to the median outside of the store complex where Dean spends his time wasting his money. He never thought he’d be grateful that Taco Bell started serving breakfast. Intently, he watches as the blind man shakes in his seat, his arms curling in on himself. “Cas, you’re gonna be alright, okay?” He reaches a hand out and rests it on his shoulder. On instinct, the other man sinks into his touch. “I need you to be here with me, man.”

Taking deep breaths, Castiel nods and opens the car door, feeling in front of him for stability. As soon as he’s out of the car, he grabs the blind man’s elbow and guides him upstairs. “I don’t believe it would be safe for me to go back to my apartment at this time. My family may show up.”

With a small laugh, Dean responds, “You can crash at my place. Maybe we can make enough noise to get Sam to leave finally.” Instead of a humored response, Cas just frowns. Right. Dean forgot exactly _why_ Sam was staying with him. It had felt too familiar.

When they finally make it to the door, as Dean’s fiddling with his keys, Cas speaks again. “We’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading i love love love comments and feedback and input and predictions or whatever you want to say!! :)


	12. Blueberry Euphoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> the song is prom song (gone wrong)/teenage wasteland by lana del rey

When he opens his eyes, all he can see is the faint sunset light trickling in through the curtains and the silhouette of the kimono hanging up on the door. Someone shifts next to him, reaching out to run their hand over his bare chest, like they’re feeling for a heartbeat.

Right. He took Cas home and got his brains fucked out because his family cut him off, and he didn’t make the symphony, and the garage is down a mechanic, and there might be another Winchester on the way.

With a groan, Dean pulls himself up and gently moves the hand to Castiel’s side. The blind man stirs, but doesn’t wake up. He considers laying back down and sleeping the night away like a normal person, but his bladder tells him otherwise. Quickly, he pulls on a clean pair of boxers from the back of his drawer, a reminder that he needs to do laundry and stop living in fantasy-land.

In the mirror, he observes the trail of hickeys running down his neck to his collarbones, which are more prominent than he remembers. But then again, he’d taken to only looking in the small mirror attached to his eyeshadow palette recently. He gives himself one last look, running his fingertips over the dark purple under his eyes and up to his cheek bones before going to the toilet.

Just as he makes it back into the room, he hears his phone start ringing, muffled, from somewhere in the hallway. He opens the door quietly, to not disturb Cas, and notices the trail of clothes he forgot about. His jeans are the furthest away, in a heap next to the couch. Sam’s door is closed, and silent. Dean hopes that his brother went out because it would be awkward to find him scavenging through the discarded clothing. He answers it just in time, not paying attention to the number and hoping it’s not Bobby.

“Hello? Dean?” Kate Milligan. “This is Kate, your father’s girl… wife.” The word stings in Dean’s chest, reminding him of razors and needles. “I know it’s getting late, but I was wondering if you had a minute.” Dean answers with one word, and hesitantly, she goes on. “With John’s passing, I’ve found myself in a bit of a rut. With planning the, uh, funeral, that is. I’ve set everything up, but since I never met any of John’s family aside from you and Sam, I’m afraid that it will seem… disappointing. Do you have the time to meet me somewhere tomorrow?”

And so it’s set up. Tomorrow morning Dean and Sam are supposed to meet Kate Milligan to talk about the stuff that John likes and who knows John and who would actually care about John. When he makes it back to the room, the itch under his skin is back, begging him to order five pizzas.

“Who was on the phone?” Castiel’s voice is rugged, tired. In Dean’s head he hears the moaning, the chanting of his own name from hours before. Sam’s hand banging on the closed door.

“Kate Milligan. She needs help planning the funeral because she only knows two people she can put on the guest list.” Dean watches as the blind man sits up, running his hand through his messy hair in an attempt to smooth it out that fails. “So we’re meeting for coffee tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp.” He turns and looks at the clock on the table. 7:46. Normally he’d be piling makeup onto his face. Castiel nods, shifting so his feet are hanging off of the bed. Dean stares his shoulder, noticing a bite mark he doesn’t remember making.

It’s silent for a moment, both of them thinking back to barely an hour ago. The marks on the blind man’s back sting. Dean figures they should pick up their clothes soon too, before Sam has a cow. If he’s even home.

“I smell like shit,” Dean says. He holds out his hand in front of Cas. “Shower with me?”

 

Dean gasps when Cas shifts and the spray of the cold water starts running down his chest, bouncing off to splash the blind man’s face. He kisses Dean’s collarbones, then moves down his chest, stopping at the first faint protrusion of his ribs. Shampoo drips down Dean’s face, falling to his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he steps forward, pressing Castiel between himself and the shower wall, and starts scrubbing his scalp.

When he opens his eyes again, the blind man’s head is facing down. There’s still soap in his hair. “Come here,” Dean says, shifting in the tight space so that Castiel’s head is under the water. He runs his fingers gently through the suds, watching as they wash out, running down his hands.

As soon as they’re both clear of any soap, Dean reaches around Cas and turns the water off. The silence feels like too much. Too little. “Hey, Cas?” His voice is quiet, wary.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean opens the shower door and reaches around for a towel. He hands one to Cas and starts soaking up water from his chest and stomach. “I’ve given you so many ways out. I didn’t talk to you for three weeks when we first kissed. I didn’t kiss you for two months because I got scared we were getting too close. I keep fucking up, and-“

“Dean.” Castiel rests his hand on the other man’s shoulder, feeling it tense up under his touch. The itching feeling under Dean’s skin is back. “Both times I ended up in the hospital this week, you were the first person I saw when I woke up.” He presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. It feels like an intrusion, because he’s not supposed to be touched like that and he’s not supposed to be talked to like that and he’s not supposed to be loved like that.

He thinks back to the day before, the way Bobby’s face looked, standing in the hospital parking lot. He thinks about the shock on Sam’s face in the doctor’s office, his insistence in the diner. He thinks about how Cas is kissing down his neck and grasping his pointed hip bones with his fingers.

What a piece of shit he is.

 

Back in his bed, he finds himself curled into the curve of the blind man’s torso, his back pressed tight against his chest. They decided to go back to bed an hour ago, but neither of them have fallen asleep yet. Dean’s heart is beating too fast. Castiel’s breathing is too short.

The silence is feeding the void. Dean can feel it screaming at him, because Castiel should not be holding him. John’s voice echoes in his head. _You’re not supposed to look at your friends like that._ But then again, they’ve never been friends, have they?

_I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

The lump is crawling up from the depths of his body, threatening to spill out. Oh, how it wants to escape.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean whispers, his voice hoarse, from screaming Castiel’s name or sticking his fingers down his throat, he’s not sure. “How come you were on the median?”

Dean feels Castiel’s hand squeeze his, and suddenly the lump is being swallowed back up and the itch is gone and his dad’s voice dissolves. “The same reason you smell like vomit.”

 

Without the dim light of the hospital and the lack of sleep, Kate Milligan really does look like _her._ Her blonde hair shines under the bright lights of the coffee shop, illuminating her pure eyes. She smiles when she spots Sam, Dean, and Cas and it feels like a stab in the chest.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for all of us,” she says. There’s a basket in front of her. “I bought a dozen blueberry scones, as a thank you. Feel free to have one.” Dean takes a look at the basket as he sits down and practically whimpers at the sight. He can feel Sam’s sharp glare stabbing into his back.

“It’s no problem at all,” Sam says. “We’re glad to help.” Lies and slander. Apparently as soon as he could hear Dean’s headboard hitting the wall last night he went to the library to study. He also didn’t get home until 2 a.m. and brought a new hickey with him.

Kate Milligan smiles her perfect smile. Dean takes a scone and starts nibbling at it. “It would be very helpful if you and your brother could make a guest list and get the word out to those people. I have everything else. John gave me a key to his house about a month before… and I was able to gather all of his military paraphernalia and some photos.” Wondering how many of those photos had smiles, Dean shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth. Next to him, he feels Cas shift in his seat.

“That’s really great. Thank you, Kate, it means a lot to Dean and I, what with my school schedule and his work schedule.” Because it’s too hard to just say that he spends all day getting high on weed and beer and food.

She smiles again and this time Dean doesn’t hesitate to pick up another scone and shove half of it in his mouth. The itch is back, making his skin burn and his eyes water. “I just have one more request,” Kate Milligan says, but her voice is sounding more and more distant. She goes mute when Dean swallows the rest of the scone and grabs another one. He watches her mouth move, knowing that something is coming out, maybe something important, but he can’t find it in himself to care when he’s on his fourth, fifth, sixth pastry.

Kate Milligan is looking at him, a confused expression on her face. Her mouth is still moving, in short phrases. It’s not until she starts to sound too much like _her_ that the sound comes back. “Dean, dear, are you okay with doing this?”

The lump is back at the base of his throat, wanting to burst out. “Don’t call me that,” he mutters before he even realizes he’s saying it. Kate Milligan’s face falls, and Sam’s sharp glare has broken the skin. “Sorry, I, uh… doing what?”

With a frown, the blonde woman answers, “writing a eulogy. I think that it would be more appropriate for you and Sam to write them than for me, considering no one else close to John knows who I am.” Damn straight.

“Sure,” Dean says absent mindedly, because he can’t say no, no matter how much he wants to. He doesn’t want to say no. He should do it because without his dad he wouldn’t know how to change a tire or shave his stubble or that Mary and John met on a cold Wednesday night. But he also would have been able to go to his senior prom instead of staying home nursing a black eye that Lisa Braeden wasn’t allowed to see.

Sam and Kate Milligan start talking again, about catering and where _she_ is buried and whether lilies or carnations should line the casket. Except flowers are for faggots and the taste of blueberry on Dean’s tongue feels euphoric. The discussion is drowned out from Dean’s ears when a soft hum picks up next to him. Cas has drifted into his own world, lost in the haze of the Adderall Dean pretended not to watch him swallow before they left.

By the ninth scone Kate Milligan is waving goodbye and Dean feels like he’s going to explode, coating the coffee shop with his insides. The basket is still on the table, egging him on, just one more. Just one more and he’ll be satisfied.

And one after that.

And after that.

But now it’s too quiet and Cas stopped humming and Sam is staring at him again. The lump in his throat is gone, swallowed down with the thick blueberry pastry. He had spotted the bathroom on the way in, and gets up, longing for the high feeling of empty. Without words, he starts walking.

“Dean,” Sam says, stopping his older brother in his tracks. His hand grips around Dean’s wrist, the bones shaking in his fingers. “You don’t have to do this. You fought the urge at the diner, you can fight it here.” But the diner was different. He didn’t feel full in the diner.

“Let go of me,” Dean spats, not daring to make eye contact with Sam because he knows he’ll suddenly be that bruised, fearful little boy who wasn’t tall enough to reach the box of cereal to feed his crying brother.

Sam’s fingers tighten. “Dean, come on. I know you can do this. You’re stronger than this.”

“Tell that to whoever gave you the new hickey.”

 

The water feels cold on his swollen face, waking him up from his brief post-purge haze. There’s no one in the bathroom, most people just coming in, picking up whatever cup they need to get through the work day, and storming out. Walking back into the crowd of people towards their table feels tense, until he notices the absence of Sam’s too-long hair.

Cas sits alone, tapping his fingers on the table. He had worn his sunglasses, explaining that it’s easier for him to avoid conversation in crowded places that way. They’re kind of hot in Dean’s opinion, but he’d never admit it out loud.

“Where’d Sam go?”

“He said something about unfinished schoolwork and took a cab,” Castiel says, unmoving, his fingers losing their beat. Not a good sign.

Dean sighs and sit’s back down, close enough that their knees are touching under the table. He leans into his whatever-Cas-is, hoping with everything he has left that the twelve breath mints he swallowed are strong enough. “What’s up, buddy?”

“I…” Cas starts, his voice shaky. “My cell phone got cut off. The doings of my mother, I suspect…” Right. While Dean was too busy loathing himself, Cas had been entirely cut off from his family. “The savings account, I can still use, but I don’t know for how long.”

“Well, we are at the mall… wanna blow some cash?”

 

It all feels like a dream, like something that isn’t real. Dean’s heart pounds in his chest, because he’s actually _nervous,_ because technically speaking, this is his and Cas’ first date. He knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help it. It’d only been an hour, but they already have a few bags, mostly books from a bookstore that carried a braille section, and a few new jackets because Dean has pretty much adopted the blind man’s sweatshirt as his.

As they pass another store, Dean literally stops in his tracks, causing Cas to take a step forward and then be jerked back. “Dude, we have to do this,” Dean states.

Castiel, now annoyed because he nearly dropped the bag of books on his foot, turns to face Dean. “Do what?”

“Get something pierced. Or get a tattoo. One or the other. Or both.”

“No way in hell.”

“Dude, it’ll be the biggest ‘fuck you’ to your family. Something tells me they wouldn’t be too thrilled about it.”

After a short moment of silence, Castiel speaks. “I guess you’re right.”

 

Dean watches, the itching feel completely devoid from his skin, as Castiel’s face pales at the sound of the tattooed employee preparing the needle. In the end, he’d decided not to get anything, because he’s not going to be able to see it anyway. But Dean, however, feeling adventurous, choose a simple piercing that maybe Jefferson Slutship would want. Totally not him. At first he’d felt guilty, because it’s expensive to stab holes in your face, but then he remembered that it was Castiel’s demon mother’s money. And he really hopes that when she looks at the account, she thinks that it’s her son’s.

“This should only be a pinch, so don’t worry about too much pain,” the employee says, although Dean suspects that she really doesn’t care about his reaction as long as her paychecks are getting written. She readies the needle up to his face, and as fast as it started, it’s over. She admires her work for a second before handing Dean a mirror for him to admire his face in.

Aside from the swollen cheeks and wet eyes, Dean feels like the metal compliments his appearance. The ring curves over his nostril in a small arch, not too big. He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Castiel’s frazzled voice. “Dean, are you okay? It doesn’t hurt, does it? Are you not talking because you’ve passed out?”

Dean lets out a small laugh before answering, “No, I’m fine. But you look like you’re about to.” He slides off the table and places his hands on Castiel’s hips, placing himself between the blind man’s legs.

The employee comes up behind them, holding Castiel’s card and the receipt out to them with blank eyes. “Pleasure doing business with you. You should come back soon; I think a tongue ring should be next on your list.” It’s painfully obvious to Dean that she’s trying to scare them off so that she can go back to getting paid to do nothing. He thanks her and grabs Cas’ hand, leading him out of the store.

Once outside, he grabs the blind man’s neck and pulls him in for a chaste kiss. A thank you. An apology. He’s not sure himself. It surprises him when Castiel grabs onto Dean’s shoulders and pulls him in again to smash their mouths together. Dean’s lips feel swollen after, but it’s a good kind of swollen. Not one he’s used to.

“What was that about?” He questions.

“That woman was flirting with you. I want her to know that you’re unavailable.” Dean wants to laugh, but then he remembers that the other man couldn’t see her body language.

“I didn’t peg you as the possessive type,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel’s hand, starting to lead them further into the mall.

“I suppose we’re going back to your apartment now?”

“Nah, I think it’s time for me to look for new dresses. I’ll get one just for you.”

 

 _“Boy, it’s late, take me home, put your hand in mine,”_ Dean lip syncs, swaying in his spot on the stage, twirling strands of hair into his fingers. His boss had been more than happy to see him, muttering something about new girls not understanding the difference between crossdressing and stripping. The music pounds in his chest, reminding him of the way Castiel’s eyebrows furrow together when he gets upset. _“At the gate, stop and say, ‘be my valentine.’”_

As the song continues, he ventures into the audience, earning a few unwanted touches from a few older men, but they also hold out five dollar bills, so he can’t find it in him to care. His short blonde hair sways around his sharp cheeks, flaring out at the top of his shoulders. It had taken forever to pick out, but it’s a look he feels proud in, mostly because it was bought by the same woman who’s caused Castiel so much pain. Plus, the shiny, transparent material squeezes his ass just tight enough that you can’t tell it’s stuffed with couch cushion.

 _“I see you in the hall like ‘hello, hello,’”_ he mouths as he shakes his hips back against the bar, _“up against the wall like ‘let’s go, let’s go,’”_ someone holds out a twenty as Dean thrusts forward on the last two words. He prances around for more of the song, collecting stray cash and shoving it in his empty bra.

 _“Let’s get out of this place, cause you’re starting waste, within this teenage wasteland.”_ He closes his eyes and sits on the stage, swinging his legs around so his side is facing the audience. _“You will never see my face, if you don’t get me out of this place, now baby”_ he rolls over onto his stomach, pushing up his hips, _“I’m not crazy.”_ He brings his torso up, sitting back on his heels. Thankfully, his boss hadn’t questioned the ratty black converse he decided to wear. They don’t match the look, but he’s been riding the first-date high all evening.

He opens his mouth to lip sync one last line, running his hands over the back of his wig and looking into the audience. Everything stops when he spots Bobby and Sam standing by the front door.

For a second, he can tell that they audience is confused at the missed line, but the song’s over anyway, the next one picking up in a burst of drums. His legs are frozen in place, because he shouldn’t get up, he should hide. Because Bobby can’t know that Dean’s a faggot who cross-dresses. Because there was a reason for all the bruises that danced across his arms during childhood. He forces himself to stand anyway, trying to ignore the lump coming up and up and up, on its way out. The words come, but he can’t open his mouth because the lump is there, and it’ll come out. It’s going to come out. It’s going to come out and he’ll make a mess on the stage. It can’t come out. He holds his breath, keeping his mouth shut tight, choking it down because it can’t come out. By the time Bobby and Sam’s expressions change, blackspots block his vision and Dean falls backward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live off of feedback to feel free to comment generously! 
> 
> plus as a bonus if anyone ever feels like drawing dean in drag or anything from this story or writes anything based on this story please tell me i will cry, literally.
> 
> also, i drew a picture of jefferson slutship: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Cm3v_MEUkAAmcem.jpg (the look from this chapter)


	13. Don't Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading im sorry this took longer than usual 
> 
> song is don't speak by no doubt

“Are you okay girl? At least you looked gorgeous when you fell. It kind of looked like a death drop from far away.”

“Is her corset too tight? Maybe she can’t breathe. Will CPR ruin my lipstick?”

“She’s not wearing one. Oh God, what if she dies?”

“Who’s dying?”

“Jefferson.”

“Do you think she’d care if I keep that dress? It looks good.”

“It wouldn’t fit your bulky ass anyway.”

“I thought I told you to get on that stage. Tell everyone she’s fine, I can hear them asking about her.”

“Even on her deathbed this bitch upstages me.”

“Just go!”

The voices grow more clear above Dean, filtering out until he can distinguish who’s talking. They’re unfamiliar, except one, which he recognizes as his boss. Why is his boss there? The floor feels hard on his back, pressing into the shape of his protruding shoulder blades. Do dead people feel pain? Is he dead? Someone presses their hand to the side of his neck. He’s not dead. He kind of regrets that.

When he opens his eyes, the light from above is blocked by a girl with long, shiny purple hair and wide eyes that are caked with sparkles. So not a real girl. “She’s awake,” the girl says, looking away from him. Her hair falls into his mouth, and he spits it out before sitting up. “Oh, sorry.”

“What the fuck?” He asks, putting his weight on his palms. Around him stands three or four other queens and his boss, who looks more annoyed than worried. The girl with the purple hair stands up, holding out her hand for him for grab. No fake nails, just short stubs. He doesn’t take it.

With a frown, Purple Hair answers. “You passed out on the stage. We were just about to call the cops. Are you okay?”

Narrowing his eyebrows, Dean brushes himself off. “I’m fine.” _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ He looks down at the dress, pretty and pink and shiny and new. Faggot. The itch under his skin starts creeping up. “I just need to get out of here.”

His boss steps in front of him as he tries to leave. “Not until we have a word.” Purple-Hair watches, her eyes widening at the tone of the man’s voice. The man looks at her, and she looks down at her feet. “Privately.”

Dean watches as the other queens go back to minding their own business, not paying attention to him like usual. His boss starts walking to his office, and Dean follows reluctantly, grateful that he decided not to wear heels. The room is dim, nearly dark compared to the bright lights of the vanities lining the walls backstage. He imagines Castiel sitting alone in his room, humming along to whatever music he’s burned into his mind over time.

“I know that recently you’ve had tragedy strike in your family,” the man starts, sitting down in a tall leather chair. “Now, I’ve let you take off whatever time you need, because a sad girl is a boring girl. But when you do show up, I expect you to perform and I expect you to perform well. Is that understood?” Dean nods slowly, and crosses his arms over his shaking body. It’s suddenly too cold for him to move. Too cold for him to function. With a sigh, his boss’ expression softens. “I need you to be honest with me… what is your name? Your real name.”

“Dean.”

“Dean.” The man leans forward on the table. “I’ve seen this before. Weakness, weight loss, fatigue. I told that bastard to stop selling to my girls and to take his business elsewhere, but it seems as though he’s returned.” Dean narrows his eyebrows in confusion. It’s the most he’d ever heard the man talk, and also the most confused he’d ever been because of it. “Are you, or are you not, addicted to drugs?”

Oh. Relief washes over him. It’s a new feeling, because for the first time he actually cares. Because as much he tells himself he’s just doing this for money, he’s only doing it to survive, he actually likes drag. He spends most of his money on food and makeup. Because here he has a purpose. “No, I’ve just been over stressed lately.” He says, although his boss looks unconvinced. “Seriously, Crowley. I’m fine.”

The man shifts back in his chair. “Whatever you say. But if something like this happens again, you’re out. And I want you to stay, _Dean._ You’re one of my best girls.” He waves his hand, indicating for Dean to leave.

Sam’s puppy-dog face is the first thing he sees when he returns backstage. It stings in his chest, as if the mirror girl is bad and her hand is clutching his heart again. The feeling fades when he sees Purple-Hair put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a stretch despite her five-inch heels. It’s a funny scene, watching Sam try to gently let the girl down, trying to remain his composure. When he sees Dean, his face falls, and the room grows quiet.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Dean mutters, watching as Purple-Hair brings her arm down. He barges passed her and Sam, pushing the door open with vigor. It slams against the outside brick, and nearly hits him as it comes back down. He wishes it did when he spots Bobby standing in front of the impala. Sam comes out of the building behind him, being much more kind to the door.

“Dean,” Sam starts, but stops when his back is suddenly shoved into the closed door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean barks, his chest heaving. “Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”

“Because I _care_ about you, Dean,” Sam exclaims, regaining his balance. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that? You can’t just push everyone away and think we’re gonna be okay with it.”

Turning away, Dean backs up, putting a few feet between him and his brother. He can hear Bobby coming forward behind him, his boots grinding on the gravel of the parking lot. His chest starts pounding, his heart screaming at him to get out of there because it can’t take anymore feeling. He can’t take anymore feeling. “You’re not supposed to come here,” he whispers, just barely loud enough for them to hear him. “You’re not supposed to see me like this.”

Sam’s eyebrows narrow in confusion. “See you like what, Dean? You think I don’t know what it feels like to panic? Look, I’m sorry that we caught you at a bad time, but where else could we have gone where you wouldn’t just shut the door? Dean, we just need to-“

“No,” Dean says, this time turning so that he can face both Sam and Bobby. “Not… I mean…” he feels like he’s floating away, like his brain is suddenly leaking out of his ears, collecting into a puddle at his old, ratty shoes. “You’re not supposed to see me like this,” he waves his hands down, gesturing to his attire. “I’m not supposed to be like this, Sam. Okay? You’re not supposed to know that I’m a faggot.”

The silence pierces him like a knife, pain radiating in his chest. Because this is it. Sam’s going to leave again and Bobby’s going to leave and Cas will eventually leave and he’ll be alone and he needs pizza.

“God, Dean,” Sam says, brushing a strand of hair away from his face, “How could you even think that?” Dean looks away, searching for something, anything but _this._ He wasn’t ready for it. He knew he never would be ready for it. “Dean,” Sam says, but his brother still doesn’t respond, eyes fixated on the shining lights spelling out _Crowley’s._ “Dean, look at me.” It takes a second, but he does, and Sam’s breathing hitches at the darkness under his brother’s eyes. The lifelessness. “You’re my brother, and I love you. And dressing up like a woman and liking guys isn’t going to change that. Nothing’s going to change that, Dean.”

He can feel the small rocks of the parking lot pressing into his feet through the thin soles of his shoes. It hurts, a dull ache, constantly there. If he talks, he knows the growing lump in his throat will expand and spill out onto the gravel in a wet heap, splashing him and Sam and Bobby. Instead of responding to his brother, he focuses on the little rocks stabbing into his feet.

Bobby speaks now, seemingly cautious of what he says, as if Dean is a bomb waiting to go off. Maybe he is, he doesn’t know. “Boy, if your old man hadn’t already kicked the bucket, I’d beat his head in.” It comes as a shock, because for a moment Dean had forgotten that he killed his father. Because for a moment he was pretty and pure, guilt free. For a moment he wasn’t fucked up.

There’s a jolt under his skin, sending shock down his spine, because Bobby’s hands are on his shoulders and then they’re cupping his shoulder blades and then his ribs are jabbing into the old man’s stomach. Suddenly he’s that 16-year-old boy with a bleeding head and a drunk dad and bruised forearms. He pretends that there isn’t a new wet feeling on his shoulder, and that he doesn’t feel Bobby’s arms tensing when his fingers brush against the curve of his vertebrae through his clothes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be sorry for who you are, boy,” Bobby says, pulling away so that his hands are resting on the curve of Dean’s shoulders. “The only thing you should be sorry for is that piece of scrap metal coming out of your face.”

Dean lets out a soft laugh, trying to ignore the feeling deep in his stomach. The hunger. Bobby frowns again, looking at the younger man up and down, eyes grazing over the protruding bones he can see through the garment. It makes Dean feel hollow, light, as if he’ll collapse. Again. Each bone represents the crumbling. He’s crumbling, decomposing into the void that lies inside him, the one that he’s hidden for so long. Soon enough he’ll be gone, too gone, and then everyone will see what he’s been hiding. He doesn’t want everyone to know what he’s been hiding, but the look on Bobby’s face makes him want to bury his dissolving teeth into his knuckles until his heart stops.

Sam speaks now, his voice trembling as if he’s walking on a tightrope, “Dean, the main reason we’re here is… uh… we talked, and we decided that after dad’s funeral, we should take up Doctor Omundson’s offer.” Dean backs up, freeing himself from Bobby’s grasp. “Dean, you need to do the outpatient program. You can’t live like this anymore.”

Whatever light he thought he felt vanishes. His feet are pressing down too hard on the gravel. His bones are suddenly made of steel. “Live like what, Sam?” He doesn’t get an answer. “Huh? Live like what?”

“A bulimic,” Sam states, and the word still makes Dean’s heart pound against his chest. Everything makes his heart pound against his chest. “Dean, you’re sick. You have an eating disorder. And you need to get better.”

“At least I’m not hurting anybody,” Dean mutters. Bobby and Sam are staring holes into his body. “This shit only hurts me, but you, Sammy, you’re not just hurting yourself.” He knows it’s a low blow, but he can feel everything coming up his burning throat. Word vomit. “You can’t tell me what to do with my life, as long as your fucking yours up too. What’s her name? Jessica? Your beautiful, perfect fiancée? What’s she gonna think when she finds out you can’t stop fucking every other chick you meet?” Sam’s face changes, Dean can see it, knows it like the back of his hand. The pleading expression is gone, faded into one of anger, defeat. Fear.

“You think you’re not hurting anybody Dean?” Sam asks, starting to back away. “Every single time I look at you it hurts me. You don’t think Bobby got hurt in the parking lot the other night?” Dean shifts his gaze to the man, who’s simply looking down as if he’s trying to get the memory of Dean’s vertebrae out of his head. “What about Cas? He’s the one who touches you all the time, who’s had to feel you deteriorate in his fucking arms.” Every word that comes out of his brother’s mouth feels like a stab to the chest, and the lump is back and the itch is back and the void is craving. “Dean, if you’re not even willing to try treatment after Dad’s funeral, then I’m going back to California.”

As soon as Sam and Bobby’s car pulls out of the parking lot, Dean darts for his. Just as he opens the door, the purple-haired queen comes out of the building. “You’re still here?” She asks. “Are you okay?” Dean wants to scream that no, he’s not okay, he’ll never be okay because he killed his dad and he can’t stop eating and everything in his head is too loud, but instead he nods and opens the car door. “Wait,” Purple-Hair says, “I don’t know what’s up with you, or who those guys were, but… do you need to talk or something?” Dean shakes his head, unable to speak because then everything will come spilling out. “I could just sit with you, if you want,” Purple-Hair says, and to his own surprise, Dean motions to the passenger door.

 

The diner smells the same as it did days before, grease from bacon and hash browns making Dean’s mouth practically water. Aside from a businessman sipping coffee at the counter, the two queens are the only people there. Purple-Hair was baffled when she watched Dean order, listing off almost everything from the menu. It felt weird to Dean, doing it in front of someone, but at this point he didn’t care because he doesn’t want to be alone, he doesn’t, but he can’t stop pushing everyone away.

Taking a large gulp of his coffee, Dean starts the conversation, “So what’s your name, kid?”

“Electra,” she says, piling a packet of creamer into her coffee.

“No, your real name.”

“Oh, uh…” Dean watches as the younger queen reaches up and slides her purple wig off, exposing a mess of dark hair. “Kevin.”

Removing his own wig in a similar fashion, Dean responds, “Dean.” Just as he’s about to hold out his hand for Kevin to shake, the waitress comes back. With a blank stare, she places four plates in front of Dean, and a small one with a muffin on it for Kevin.

“Are you bringing that home or something?” Kevin asks, tearing a piece of the muffin off and placing it in his mouth.

“No,” Dean says blatantly, picking up his fork and cutting into the small stack of pancakes. They’re smothered in butter and syrup, just like his mother would make them. Kevin watches as he downs three pancakes in a minute, not even bothering to chew, just forcing the large bites down his throat.

Slowly, Kevin starts working on his muffin again. By the time he’s halfway done, Dean’s already polished off all of the pancakes, a plate of hash browns, and half of the sausage omelet. “Where do you put all of it?” Kevin asks, seemingly trying to be humorous. Dean looks up, swallowing the cheesy, greasy egg with a confused look. “The food, I mean. You’re the skinniest person I’ve ever met, so where does all the food go? You must have a crazy fast metabolism.”

Dean laughs, empty and hollow, but laughs, because it’s the first time in a while that someone hasn’t given him a weird look, that they haven’t judged him. It’s cute, how innocent the kid is, how he has no idea. Dean wishes he could go back to that, but then he’d be six years old again and his mother’s hair wouldn’t be stained red. He shoves the rest of the food forward, toward Kevin, who watches with wide eyes. “You can have the rest,” Dean says. The need to be empty again is digging at him, the void yelling at him to do something about it. Kevin opens his mouth to retort, but Dean interrupts him before getting up to head to the bathroom. “You need it more than me, I promise.”

 

The tiles of the diner bathroom make his knees ache, no muscle to protect them from the surface. His hand is resting in his mouth, the taste of salt prominent from his fingers. But he can’t bring himself to push further back, to press the back of his throat until everything comes up. Everything needs to come up. The voice in his head is telling him that it needs to come up, that he needs to be empty again. But Kevin could come in any second, asking where he is, if he’s okay. If Kevin comes in, he’ll figure out where the food goes. Dean doesn’t want him to find out where the food goes, because everything is so peachy in Kevin’s eyes.

Is that why he let him come with him? Because he knew that he wouldn’t purge?

 

After dropping Kevin off at a small house with all the lights turned off, Dean opens his apartment door to hear the familiar humming. He slowly makes his way down the hallway, the humming getting louder and louder. Castiel’s sitting on the bed, his cello at his feet. His eyes are closed and he’s humming something aggressive, loud. It stops when Dean speaks.

“Cas, buddy, what’s wrong?” He only hums when something’s wrong. Something is really wrong.

The humming stops, and the blind man turns his head to face Dean. “All of my things are gone,” he says, his voice hoarse. Dean wonders how long he’d been humming. “My clothing, my furniture, the voice operated machines Gabriel bought me… All of it is gone, except my fucking cello.” Dean comes forward and sits on the bed next to the man, carefully stepping over the cello in the process. “My mother left it for me, I suppose, to always remind me that I failed her. That I will be nothing.”

“Cas, you’re not nothing.” Dean reaches around brings his arms around the blind man, cupping his shoulder with one of his hands.

“I am, Dean. I am nothing. I will always be nothing,” Castiel says, leaning into Dean’s touch.

The humming starts again, softer than before, slower. “Well you’re everything to me,” Dean says, and they fall back onto the bed, just their calves hanging off the edge.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, shifting his body so that he’s on his side, facing the other man.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Will you sing to me again?”

It’s silent for a moment, and Dean just listens to Castiel’s breath and tries not to focus on the full feeling in his stomach. “You and me, we used to be together,” he starts. He can tell Cas knows the song by the way he perks up. “Every day together always, I really feel, that I’m losing my best friend,” Sams door was left ajar, empty of any sign of him when Dean got home. At he approaches the end of the song, he can feel Castiel’s breath slowing, indicating that soon he’ll be asleep. “As we die, both you and I,” Dean sings, his voice growing quieter with each word. “with my head in my hands, I sit and cry.” The song’s not over, but he can’t sing anymore, the words too heavy in his throat. He presses a soft kiss to Castiel’s forehead, tasting salt.

“Hey, Cas?” He whispers. The blind keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t move at the words.

“Yes, Dean?”

“I’m pretty sick, aren’t I?”

With a sigh, the blind man wraps his arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him closer. “Yes, Dean. You are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i feel this chapter moved a little slow, but it's a chapter, nonetheless. plus, there's a new character. so yay.


	14. The Old Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading sorry it took longer than usual

At first, when he wakes up, he thinks he’s dying. The pain is tight, sharp, and makes him curl into himself on the bed. Next to him, Castiel stirs, slowly recognizing the weight shifting next to him. The pain passes by the time that the blind man comes to full consciousness. “Dean? Are you awake?” When he receives a groan as a response, he props himself up on his elbow. “Are you okay? Did you drink last night? Do you have a hangover?”

With a small laugh, Dean rolls over onto his back and grasps Castiel’s hand gently. He notices how the scars on the tips of the blind man’s fingers brush against the top of his hand, sending cold shivers up his spine. “No, I… I’m fine, just got a stomach ache is all.” The pain is still there, dull, but there, reminding him of Sam and Bobby and Kevin and the parking lot. His wig slipped off of him during the night, and there’s an eyelash on his cheek. Sighing, Dean forces himself up and out of the bed, the loss of the warmth from Cas feeling like a stab in the chest.

He peels the eyelash off his cheek and searches for his makeup wipes, finding them buried under a bra. As he starts wiping the grimy product from his face, the pain in his stomach comes back, despite how much he’s denying it. Behind him, he can hear Cas shuffling around on the bed. Dean looks across the hall, seeing Sam’s bedroom door left open ajar, the bed empty.

Just as he finishes and starts stripping himself of his clothes, the blind man speaks up. “Dean, may I use some of your marijuana?”

Dean stops mid-untuck and stares at the dark haired man for a second before letting out a soft laugh. “I think my stash might be out. Maybe you should take a break from…” Castiel’s face changes, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s anger or confusion. “Maybe you should take a break from the drugs, man. Especially after the last week, and I know this whole thing with your mom is kind of… hard.”

With a frown, Castiel feels down in front of him, feeling the edge of the cello before carefully stepping over it. “You don’t know anything,” he mutters, feeling next to him for his sunglasses and cane, which are lying on the bedside table. “You… You don’t understand. Call Gabriel.” Dean watches silently as Cas points the cane in front of him and feels around the house, heading presumable for the door. Reluctantly, Dean finishes getting undressed and searches for a pair of men’s underwear in his top drawer.

His phone sits on top of the dresser, and he stares at it for a second, deciding. He has no money. Maybe he does. He doesn’t know. Is that bad? If he goes out, he’ll go to the gas station. He knows it. His throat hurts. Bobby cried because of him and Sam is leaving again and his dad his dead because of him and he has to write a eulogy by tomorrow. All he wants is a dozen doughnuts. He doesn’t know which is worse, when he had two chins and held back tears after every slice of pizza or the constant pain in his throat.

After pulling on underwear, a pair of sweatpants, and a t-shirt he hasn’t worn since high school, Dean finally works up the courage to pick up his phone. The number still feels foreign as he dials it and waits, almost hoping for it to go to voicemail. When it does, he feels the feeling inside him start to bubble up and creep out, screaming at him to buy fifty doughnuts and shove them down his throat.

Sam didn’t pick up 52 times. Is it 53 times now? In his head, Dean can hear the robotic voice again, telling him that his brother is gone. But Sam’s not gone anymore, right? He’s coming back. _Right?_ As the panic starts to rise in Dean’s chest, so does his craving for junk food. Hurriedly, he digs through his dresser, thankful to find a few dollars. As he puts on his shoes, he starts doing the math in his head. He can buy three family sized bags of chips. Or five servings of nachos. Does Burger King have chicken fries still? He should stop at the bank and empty his account. He needs to be empty. Why is it so hard to stay empty? If he can get more money, he can buy a few pizzas. Is there still money in his bra?

The front door opens and Dean freezes in front of it, the sudden rush of panic dissolving from his chest. Sam pokes his head through, a surprised look on his face from unexpectedly being so close to his brother.

“I called you,” Dean blurts out, ignoring the way his hands are shaking and his chest is pounding. “52 times. Now it’s 53.”

Frowning, Sam steps all the way in and shuts the door behind him. “I know, but I was parking the truck, and figured… Are you okay?” Dean wants to shake his head, to scream that no, he’s not, and that he just wants a few pizzas and to stop feeling like he’s drowning. Instead, he says nothing and watches as Sam walks passed him and places his keys on the counter before turning around again. “Dean, look… I-“

“I need laxatives,” Dean interrupts, not even feeling a bit embarrassed, remembering that night in Castiel’s apartment.

Sam’s expression shifts to confusion, and he rests a hand on the counter next to him. “What?” He asks, and Dean’s not sure if it’s disbelief or confusion.

Dean rolls his eyes and puts his hand out, holding the money in front of him. “Here, I… I need laxatives, alright? Sam, I… If I go out, I’m gonna buy pizza.” Sam doesn’t move. “Please,” Dean whimpers.

Grabbing the money, Sam eyes Dean up and down once more before smiling softly. “Thank you, Dean. For trying.” He says, and heads out again.

Dean listens for the car engine, most likely one of Bobby’s junk cars, and waits for it to fade out. The void inside him and scratching at his insides, punishing him for not going out. He leans against the door and sinks down into himself, bringing his knees up to his chest. They feel sharp under his hands, reminding him of hazy summers and the garage and Sam’s bright smile. He can only bask in the silence for a few minutes before his phone is ringing in his pocket.

“Hello?” He answers blankly, his voice monotone. Everything feels so far away, like he has dumb-bells strapped to his feet, weighing him down in the sand while everyone else floats above him.

“Hey, Dean-o, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m gonna kick your ass.” Gabriel’s voice makes his brain pound against his skull. It’s too early. It’s almost noon. “Cas somehow made his way to my apartment and now he’s here wallowing in self-pity and really dampening the atmosphere. I got a gangbang set up in the next room, and I don’t need the clientele to end up crying on my whore’s shoulder.”

“Jesus Christ, Gabriel. You’re more of a psycho than I thought,” Dean complains. He imagines Cas sitting on the floor, most likely a blunt in between his fingers, his blank eyes hiding whatever Dean did to him on the inside.

“I’m a businessman. Wait, Cas, dude, stop-“ There’s scrambling on the other end, giving Dean a moment to breath.

“Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. You alright?”

“Yes, Dean. I am very high on amphetamines.” Dean snorts and leans into the door, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Dean, how do you feel about Soho? I’ve heard very nice things. Do you think we could afford to live there one day? I love you.”

Dean laughs, imagining Cas sprawled out on Gabriel’s floor while the older man pouts about his interrupted porno. It must be a sight. He wishes he didn’t let him leave. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll win the lottery, alright?”

“Dean,” Castiel says again, this time his tone more serious. “Dean, I got a call in Gabriel’s car this morning. What kind of dog would we get? I’ve never had a dog, are they nice.”

The pain in his stomach comes back faintly, and Dean finds himself hunching over, pressing on his stomach with one hand. Call? “Yeah, dogs are nice Cas. What call?”

“I want a poodle, Dean. I hear they don’t shed, because they have hair instead of fur. You could make it look pretty, like you do in drag.”

“What call, Cas?”

“Oh, yes, Dean, I got a call. An old man with a deep voice wants me to play in his symphony because he’s never seen anything like me before. I told him I’ve never seen anything like me before either, and he didn’t laugh. Oh, Dean, what would we name our poodle?”

Everyone leaves. First his mom, then Sam, Dad, now Cas. What will Dean have then? French fries? “What do you mean some guy wants you to play in his symphony Cas? What’s all this shit about Soho?”

“The symphony is in New York City, Dean. How fancy is that?” Castiel laughs, and Dean swears he can hear someone moaning in the background. Turns out the blind man’s bad mood didn’t dampen things at all.

“Cas, buddy, We gotta talk about this. You… if you’re leaving, we gotta figure something out. You don’t have any stuff, remember?” Every word feels like a stab to his chest and every syllable aches. He should encourage Cas to leave so he can rot in peace. There’s more shuffling on the other end, and he can hear the faint tone of Gabriel’s voice. Then it’s over. The line goes dead and then he’s by himself again, in the empty apartment.

Everything is empty. The apartment. The fridge. His bank account. His stomach. His chest.

His stomach starts hurting again, this time sharper. With a groan, he doubles over, pressing his chest into his knees. His bones press against each other, the curve of his knee cap bruising his chest bone. Since when was he able to do that? Slowly, Dean forces himself off the floor. He stumbles forward, the rush of blood to his head too much, and catches himself on the edge of the counter. His clothes feel too heavy. Everything is so _heavy._

After recomposing himself, Dean hazily makes it to his bathroom and turns on the light. His eyes remind him of what hers looked like, lying on the gurney. The blood stained her hair, dripping down to frame her face and leak into her floral dress. But it had left her face untouched. His father always said she had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Before it was gone.

He can’t remember the last time he really looked at himself in the mirror. Sure, he’d done his makeup as recent as the night before, but that was to hide himself from everyone. Including himself. With shaking hands, Dean brings his fingers up to brush against the sharp protrusion of his cheek bones. He shuts his eyes, and focuses on the ringing in his ears as his fingers move down his neck, resting on the dip of his collarbones. The itch under his skin turns into a burn, and he’s slowly lighting on fire because now his hand his cupping the faint outline of his ribcage. He should drink gasoline.

In the mirror, he watches as his shirt rides up and he can eyeball every crevice, every valley in between his bones. Ever so slowly, he will decompose until the void he tries so hard to cover up and pretend isn’t there. He’s almost there. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Dean?”

At her funeral Dean hid himself in the bathroom and cried and cried and cried until his chest felt hollow and there were no more tears left and he forgot to lock the door and Sam came in and held Dean’s hand for the rest of the service.

This time he didn’t hear the front door open or Sam’s heavy boots on the wood floor or his faint, shocked voice because his brother’s high school clothes are baggy on him.

“Dean, oh my God,” Sam mutters, mostly to himself, but it’s enough to get his older brother’s attention. Quickly, Dean drops the shirt and turns to face Sam, grimacing at his wide eyes. There’s a bag in his hand, which presumably has the laxatives in it. “Dean, I didn’t… I didn’t know you were this bad. I… what did I… you’re…”

“It’s not your fault, Sam.” Talking hurts his throat. “I did this to myself.” With a weak smile, Dean steps forward and pries the bag from Sam’s clenched hand. He pulls out the small box, feeling Sam’s stare trying to see through his clothes, to be able to see more of the damage.

“Dean, please,” Sam says, his voice cracking, “Please, take Doctor Omundson’s offer. Dean, I. I can’t…” He looks down at the bathroom tiles, listening as Dean opens the box and pops out a few of the white tablets. Breathing is becoming a chore.

Eagerly, Dean swallows a few of the pills and bends down, taking a sip of water from the sink. He can still feel Sam’s eyes bearing into him. “Last night I took Kevin out to that diner,” he says, not daring to look at Sam because looking at Sam will make the lump fall out of his mouth and into the sink. “Kevin’s the purple haired girl from the club. The one who eyeballed you like you were her last meal.” He can hear Sam laugh under his breath, but it doesn’t lighten the weight holding his gaze down to the porcelain. “I binged. I ate everything. I think I scarred the kid for life.” The words feel foreign coming out of his mouth, as if he shouldn’t be saying them, because there’s nothing wrong. He deserves it. Right?

“Dean, this is-“

“I’m not done.” It feels wrong cutting Sam off, but he can’t hear what he has to say. Or he’ll break. “I stood over the toilet with my fingers shoved to the back of my mouth but I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it, and I don’t know why.” He brings his hand up and curls it around himself, feeling the outline of his bones through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. “I fucking hate myself, Sammy. I hate everything about me. I… There isn’t a single fucking thing that I like. I’m sorry… You deserve-“

“Shut up,” Sam spats, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him around, forcing him to look up. “Dean, shut the fuck up. I… I can’t hear you talking like that, okay? And maybe I hate myself too. I hate myself too. But, Dean… Don’t you realize what you just did?” When Sam gets no response, he loosens his grip on Dean’s arm, but doesn’t let go. “You stopped. You didn’t do it, you stopped yourself. This is possible, Dean. You can… We can fix this.”

“It’s too late for me, Sammy. It isn’t worth it. If I’m not fixed by now, then it’ll never happen. I’m fucked.” They stand in silence for a minute. Sam’s grip feels like it’s burning through his skin and curling around his bones.

“I guess we have eulogies to write.”

 

The words cannot come. His hand cannot move. He is paralyzed with every memory of the bruises, of the yelling, of the alcohol. How can he praise the man who chewed him up and spit him back out with ease? How can he remember the man who broke into a million pieces and let his sons cut their feet on the shards without bleeding out? Somehow, Sam’s already jotted down half a page next to him, not saying a word since they sat down. He’s waiting for the stomach pain to subside, but the box said that it could take up to 8 hours before working.

_~~John Winchester loved his wife very much. Too much. And now, he’ll be buried next to her and they can lie next to each other for eternity.~~ _

_~~John Winchester was the father everyone wants. He was always there, always someone you could confide to. His embrace stop fucking lying everyone knows that’s a lie~~ _

_~~John Winchester gave me a black eye when I was twelve because I got caught stealing peanut butter from a gas station and they have chips and pizza and ice cream and bread and nachos~~ _

_~~Why can’t I stop lying why can’t I stop lying why can’t I stop lying do I tell everyone about the scar on my head or that every time I see my naked arms they don’t look normal to me because they aren’t bruised or that I’m a faggot~~ _

_~~I want to kill myself but I don’t know if I want that more than pizza~~ _

“How the fuck are you already that far?” Dean asks, noticing that Sam’s already turned the page. His paper is nothing but scribbled out ideas that can’t be heard by anyone else.

Sam smirks and looks at Dean. “Bullshit. How the hell do you think I got into Stanford?”

For a moment, it’s silent. But then a full bodied, heavy is spilling from Dean’s chest and not a moment later Sam’s cracking up too. There are tears running down Dean’s face by the time he’s calmed down, and the notepad is long forgotten, lying on the floor. He wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t fucking do this, man. I don’t know what to say.”

Placing his paper on the coffee table, Sam leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Neither do I. I can’t really tell stories about how he was chipper and amazing and took us to baseball games every Friday. Listen to this shit: _John was there, for whatever you had going on._ Everyone in attendance is gonna know that’s bullshit.”

Dean huffs and looks at his brother. “Maybe. But it’s a funeral. For the day we’ll all pretend that Dad was a model citizen, and that he hugged us every night, and that half the people there didn’t meet him in a bar.”

“Then we can go back to hating him.”

“I don’t hate the guy.”

“Are you sure about that?”

 

An hour later Dean finds himself bored out of his mind on the toilet, thankful that Sam ran off somewhere. He can’t even remember that time he was sitting on the porcelain and not hunched over it. It feels unnatural, like he doesn’t deserve it. There’s a knock on the door, and Dean sighs before calling out. “Sammy, can’t you wait until after I’m done?”

“Dean.”

For a second Dean narrows his eyebrows in confusion, but then realizes whose voice is saying his name. “Cas? Is that you?”

“Dean I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I told the old man no.”

“Cas, what the hell are you talking about?”

There’s a thud against the bathroom door and the sound of someone scraping against it. Dean imagines the blind man sitting against it. “The old man from New York. I told him no.”

Relief washes over Dean and he wishes it didn’t because Castiel deserves so much more. More than sitting outside the bathroom because Dean can’t even shit right. “Why?”

There’s a moment of silence before Dean hears a faint “Because I love you,” through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live for comments i love you all


	15. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is about 500 words longer than usual so yay

_“Does this fucker ever stop? How the hell are we supposed to sleep?” Dean spats, tossing his plate into the sink, wincing at the loud clank. He turns around to see Sam with his head buried in one of his books, his slice of pizza untouched next to him. “Okay. How am_ I _supposed to sleep?”_

_Sam finishes a paragraph and looks up, seeming surprised at the pizza still being there. “Sorry, the LSATs are in few months, and I need to prepare. What are you going on about, anyway?”_

_Dean rolls his eyes and shoves the plate toward his brother, who slowly shuts his book. “The asshole who lives above us. He’s been playing that… whatever it is, all day every day since we moved here. It’s annoying as hell.”_

_“I don’t know; I think it’s kind of nice. It’s real classical stuff, too. Good for studying. Calming.” Sam takes a big bite of pizza, eyes nearly rolling back into his head at the grease against his tongue. Dean has to remember to make sure the kid eats. He’s so caught up in his studying that he’d forget to put on pants before leaving the house._

_“Well, unlike you, wonder-boy, some of us have to actually sleep and actually go to jobs in the morning and actually have lives.” Dean leans on the table, watching as Sam forcefully swallows the food before talking._

_“Dude, you don’t get home until almost 3 am most days anyway. What’s your job besides the garage again?”_

_“Oh, uh, at a diner… washing dishes. Minimum wage.” Dean looks at Sam with wide eyes, but his younger brother just shrugs and opens his book again. Above them, the noise only gets louder. “God damn it; could this guy be any more annoying?”_

_Sam laughs and looks up from his page. “Look, Dean, if it bothers you that much just go ask him to knock it off. I’m sure he’ll compromise.”_

_“You know what? Fine. I will.” Sam rolls his eyes and looks back down again. “I’m doing it Sammy. You can’t stop me.”_

_“Right.”_

_“It’s happening.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“I’m leaving now.”_

_“Go, then.”_

_As Dean stalks up the stairs he goes over what he should say in his head. Is it necessary to yell? Should he start quiet then yell if the man refuses? Will the man even agree to stop? He reaches the door, the blaring music even louder than before. The piece sounds familiar, but just makes him more annoyed. Harshly, he knocks on the door, feeling the pain against his knuckles throb. After a second, the music stops, and he hears a light thud and footsteps._

_The door opens quickly, the man swinging it out passed him. “Gabriel, I told you that I am not interested in purchasing your pornography from you. Leave me alone.” The gravely, low-tone of the man’s voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine._

_Confusion clouds Dean’s head. “What the hell?” He mutters, the man’s words making absolutely no sense._

_The man narrows his eyebrows and tilts his head before speaking again. “You are not my brother,” he says, his voice sounding more confused than Dean’s._

_“Uh, yeah, man. What are you on?” Dean spats, crossing his arms._

_“Adderall? No, OxyContin. Perhaps Vicodin? I’m not sure.” Too shocked for words, Dean just stares at the man with an open mouth. He seems to get Dean’s confusion, and elaborates. “My name is Castiel. Novak. Something tells me you haven’t picked up on… I am visually impaired.”_

_Well that makes sense. Dean lets out a short breath and stands up right. Not that it matters what it looks like, he supposes. “Dean. Winchester. I, uh…” Well now he can’t ask the guy to shut up. Guess it’s time to invest in speakers._

_“My cello.”_

_“Yeah, your... your what? I…”_

_Castiel backs up and gestures to the room behind him. Dean leans forward, peeking in, noticing nothing but something that looks like a giant violin and a chair. He recognizes it, assuming it’s the instrument that’s been haunting him since they moved in. “My last neighbor left me a very… strong… voicemail, explaining that they moved away because of me.”_

_Dean shrugs, then realizes that the man wouldn’t see it, and responds, “Oh. Well, uh, I mean, it’s just the night stuff. It’s… it’s fine. I can put a pillow over my ears or somethin’. Sorry to bother you. Uh, Castiel. Novak.”_

_The blind man smiles before shutting the door, the last thing Dean hears being “Goodbye, Dean Winchester.”_

_When he gets home from the club later that night there’s a box of ear plugs on his doorstep._

Through the door he can hear the humming. The humming means that something is wrong. Something is really wrong. “Cas, buddy, are you okay?”

“No.”

“D’you wanna talk about it?” The pain in his stomach starts fading, thankfully. He hopes to be on the bed with the blind man’s arms around him within the next five minutes.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Why do you insist on calling me that?”

Dean’s silent for a second. “What?”

“Buddy. Why do you still call me buddy?”

“You’re high.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make my question invalid.”

Sighing, Dean finally forces himself off the porcelain, nearing falling forward due to his foot falling asleep. He manages to keep himself upright, ignores the black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and finds the sink. Outside the door he can hear more shuffling, but at least the humming stopped. Castiel must be sobering up, getting ready for conversation. Dean’s stomach growls as he rinses his hands but he knows that the kitchen is empty and he has no money. Maybe that’s good.

When he opens the bathroom door, Castiel slumps back, his head coming to rest at Dean’s feet. His blank eyes are stained pink, the blue turning into a soft purple. “Hello, Dean.” He mumbles. Dean wonders what kind of brother Gabriel is, supplying what caused the blind man to become like this. But then again, the last time things were okay with Sam were before the car accident.

Dean crouches down and rests his elbows on his knees, looking down at Cas. “Hey, Cas.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know. It’s always kind of been my thing. Do you want me to change it?” The itch under his skin is creeping up because he isn’t sure if the blind man is two seconds away from swallowing another bottle of pills or grabbing Dean by the shoulders and smashing their lips together. But he doesn’t want either to happen.

“No.” Cas reaches up and rests his hand over Dean’s, attentively running the pads of his fingers over the pink marks on his knuckles. With a frown, he continues. “I am not sure what to do now. All I have ever had is my cello. Despite my many accumulating material items… well, the ones that I had before yesterday… all I ever cared about was my cello. When I lived with my family in the mansion, all I cared about was my cello. By the time I was fourteen the only Christmas presents I received were for my cello, to advance my skills. I did not care about anything else.”

Dean smiles, imagining Castiel as a young boy, with his bright eyes. Probably smiling. “You should call that guy again. Go to New York, Cas. I’ll be fine here without you.” No he won’t. He’ll stuff McDonald’s down his throat until his stomach bursts and he’s splattered all over the interior of the impala.

“I am not finished.” Dean’s hand falls, coming to cup the blind man’s cheek. He feels cold against his skin. The stubble burns his touch, but he doesn’t care. “I spent nearly all hours of the day playing my cello. Until you came upstairs and yelled at me.”

“I did not yell at you,” Dean remarks, watching as Castiel’s mouth shifts into a smile.

“You wanted to. I could tell.” They both laugh, soft. Innocent. As if Dean didn’t just spend two hours on the toilet and Castiel wasn’t high on whatever his brother gave him to make him numb. “But, Dean… I am glad that you interrupted me. I would die without you.”

The room is silent for a minute, both men basking in the memories of beer stained breath and forehead sweat that made all the feelings go away. “Alright,” Dean says, “guess we need to get to bed, huh? Got the funeral in the morning…” Castiel sighs and holds his hand up, waiting for Dean to pull him up to his feet. They change in silence, only breaking for Dean to help the blind man get his arm through the hole in his shirt.

It’s not until they’re lying in the dark, the clock passed twelve, that Dean grabs Castiel’s hand and pulls it up to his chest. “If I didn’t have you I’d be six feet under too, Cas.”

The blind man’s lips feel cold against his forehead.

 

His suit is too big. His suit is too big and his father is lying in a casket in front of him. His suit is too big and his father is lying in a casket in front of him and Kate Milligan came to the rescue and safety pinned his jacket back. Kate Milligan’s eyes are red because she’s been crying because his father is lying in a casket in front of him. Dean’s eyes are red because he couldn’t face the people sober but it’s wearing off and Kate Milligan has a son.

No one has spoken yet, aside from Sam, Dean, Cas, and Kate, not a lot of people are expected to show up anyhow. Dean isn’t sure if Sam was able to conjure up enough people to fill up the front row of chairs, must less all of the many lined up next to them. A while ago, Sam left to rehearse his eulogy in the bathroom. With the funeral director’s daughter.

Bobby comes in, his eyes immediately coming to rest on Dean, who looks away. He thinks that the man is going to come up to him, try to force him to open up again, call him out. But instead he just takes a seat near the back, his gaze averting over to the door. Two women walk in, dressed in all black, although one seems to be annoyed at the formality. She looks over at Dean with a smile, but then her face falls into a hard frown. Bobby says something, but she just shakes her head and stalks over.

Quickly, Dean rushes over to Castiel, who’s humming softly. “Dean?” He mutters, reaching out.

“Yeah, Cas, it’s me,” Dean answers, grabbing Castiel’s hand and tightening his fingers around it. But it’s too late, the girl’s already coming up to them.

“Dean, hey,” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. Hiding from him. “What’s up? You haven’t been to the roadhouse in a while, so…”

“Sorry, Jo. I’ve just… Been busy. Working two jobs and stuff.” He shifts is weight from foot to foot, and feels Castiel’s hand squeeze his tighter. The blonde girl watches, a confused look on her face. “This is, uh… This is Cas. My… boyfriend.” It’s the first time that he’s said it out loud. Castiel’s grip tightens again, as if he’s trying to hold Dean in place.

Jo’s eyes widen for a brief moment before her mouth smooths into a slight curve. “Oh, that’s cool, I guess. I didn’t think you were gay.” _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ She looks at Cas, who’s head is facing the side of the casket, with no expression. Dean isn’t sure how much Adderall or Vicodin or OxyContin he took before they left, he just made sure the bottle wasn’t empty again.

Now Jo knows that Dean’s nothing but a fag. How many times did he promise himself he wouldn’t tell anyone? How many times did he tell himself that everyone would leave him? How many times did he wake up with new bruises on his ribs because he came home with a hickey and beard burn? “I’m not gay,” he says, his voice quiet, but loud enough for Jo to hear him. She just nods, wary, because one word and Dean’s shoving food down his throat, right? He looks over at Bobby and Ellen, watching for a moment as they talk in hushed breaths, most likely about him.

“Look, Dean…” Jo starts, putting her arms behind her back. Her dress is too big around the middle; it needs to be sewed in the back. He should help her with that. “You look pretty thin, and… I just… Are you okay?”

His mother died with red stained hair and his father is lying in the casket merely feet away. Sam left and he called him 52 times. In the last week his boyfriend landed in the hospital twice from “accidental” suicide attempts. He can’t eat a bite of food without shoving 20342929 calories down his throat and it takes force to keep it down. But today, he will be fine. For Jo. For Bobby. For Sam. Today, he is Dean Winchester, mechanic, son, brother. Today, he is only Dean Winchester. Not Dean Winchester the faggot. Not Dean Winchester the failure. Not Jefferson Slutship. Just Dean Winchester.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He knows the words sound forced. They are forced.

He called Sam 52 times.

Jo’s shoulders fall. “Dean, you know I know you-“

“I’m fucking fine, okay? Just leave me alone, alright? Can I at least get through my old man’s fucking funeral without anyone digging at me?”

Defeated, the blonde girl just shakes her head and walks away, meeting her bother and Bobby. Dean watches for brief moment as they regroup, clearly talking about Dean. The look on Bobby’s face makes him want to stuff his head in a blender and press high. When was the last time Bobby looked at him and smiled? When was the last time Bobby saw him genuinely smile?

Sam comes out of the bathroom, a hickey clearly visible above the collar of his suit. Unlike Dean, he actually looks prepared. At least on the outside. The clock is nearing the scheduled time of the event, and Dean almost laughs at himself because he doesn’t know what to say.

He meets Sam at the podium, trying not to stare at the bite mark on his brother’s neck. “You ready for this?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, Dean, I can wing almost anything.” They both watch as few men they’ve never seen before trickle in, presumably John’s friends from the local bar. The group sits in the front, their faces solemn. Dean never really knew what his father did when he went out. He just knew that when he returned he reeked of beer and the chances were high that the next morning he would wake up with new bruises somewhere on his body.

Just as everyone starts quieting down, and Sam gets out his notecards, a head of dark brown hair trickles into the room. It’s familiar, and for a second Dean can’t pinpoint who exactly it is.

“To begin, my brother and I would like to thank you all for coming to commemorate the passing of our father, John Eric Winchester.” _I don’t believe you. How could a man like you be a drag queen? You’re not gay, Dean._ He’s pretty sure he left a pair of heels at her house. “Dad… John… was a man of many talents, ranging from his ability to fix any vehicle to the wide range of medals he received while serving as a United States marine. In a way, he taught all of us.” _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ As Sam goes on, Dean finds himself staring directly at Bobby, watching as the man shifts somberly from looking at the back of the chair in front of him to looking Dean up and down. Everyone’s staring at him, aren’t they? Except Cas. Cas snuck a flask into his jacket pocket. Sly motherfucker. No, wait, everyone is looking down. Lisa is staring at him, analyzing his sunken cheeks and shivering frame. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

“John was always there for my brother and I,” Sam says, and Dean hears someone laugh under their breath in the audience. Wait, no. Everyone is staring at him. He’s the one who laughed. Sam pauses, giving him a look, before continuing. As he continues his blatant lies, Dean rolls up his sleeves and checks his arms for bruises. They’re clear, nothing but pale skin with the faint outline of purple veins that crawl up his arms like trees. “And, um, now Dean, if you’d like to say something,” Sam says, turning to his brother.

Dean didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his chest was screaming at him, making him gasp for air. _Now_ everyone was staring at him. “I, uh… I don’t… I can’t.” He mutters, earning mostly confused expressions from the small audience.

Sam bites his lip and breaks the short silence. “Well, um. We’d like to think of this as not just remembering John, but also celebrating his life. So we invite you all to mingle, visit the casket, and enjoy the catering. Thank you.” He looks at Dean for a short glance, his eyebrows narrowed, before stepping away from the podium and approaching Bobby and the Harvelles.

The itch under his skin is becoming too much, turning into a burn. He needs an entire pizza, or he’ll start drowning. He spots Cas, who’s still sitting, expression blank, and thinks about taking him out to the impala and letting him fuck him into the leather because he needs to get rid of the feeling in his chest. He needs to fill the void before it grows too big and exposes itself to everyone.

“Dean?” Her voice reminds him of six pack beers and the shape of cigarette butts on his palm.

He looks up at her, watching as her face shifts from curiosity to concern.  “Uh, hey, Lis. You didn’t tell me you were coming.” In the corner of his eye he sees Castiel shift in his seat. His cane is at the apartment.

“I didn’t have your new number. Dean, I’m sorry. About your father… I know how much he meant to you. I came to say my condolences. And apologize to you. About what I said.”

 _You’re not gay, Dean._ He can feel the lump in his throat coming up. It’s sliding up from the void, threatening to spill out. It’s coming up, it’s going to get out and expose him in front of everyone. “The bra wasn’t another girl’s,” he stutters out. Lisa raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond. “I… I’m a fucking drag queen. I told you. I… I told you.” He stomps away, leaving the woman alone in front of the podium.

“Cas,” he spats when he reaches the blind me. “Cas, baby, I need you right now.”

“Dean?” The blind man reaches a hand out, and Dean grabs it, pulling him up. He feels Lisa’s stare bearing into his back. “You’ve never called me that before. What happened to buddy?”

“Guess I’m changing it,” Dean says and starts dragging the other man out of the building. “I need you to fuck me, alright?” He whispers, noticing the cellist’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Dean, I do not think that is wise at your father’s funeral.”

“Don’t care.” He needs the itching feeling and the lump to go away. Immediately.

“Dean, where are you going?” It’s Sam now. Dean stops in his tracks, causing Castiel to slam into his back. He looks over, meeting Bobby’s gaze. Ellen and Jo stare at him, a million questions on the tips of their tongues.

“I… I need to get out of here.”

“Dean, seriously? Dad’s funeral?” The lump is in the base of his throat, he can taste it.

Cas comes to his rescue this time, holding out a hand. “Hello. My name is Castiel Novak, I am Dean’s partner.” Ellen raises her eyebrows, but shakes his hand, and they begin talking.

Sam gives Dean a look, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. It’s the same one from the night of the argument. The night of slammed doors and weed and packed bags. The night before the missed calls. The night where Dean stared at his phone for hours, the blunt in-between his fingers doing nothing to rid his chest of the aching feeling. The night where Sam stormed out, leaving nothing behind but a void inside of his older brother.

The night the void became hungry.

Hurriedly, Dean turns around and steps up to the food. Behind him, Lisa gives him one last look before leaving the building. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._ He ignores the strange looks from the small group of men and starts piling food on his plate, not even bothering to see what it is. It isn’t until it’s piled six inches high that he storms down the hall, bypassing the funeral director’s daughter and turning into the bathroom,

Before the door closes, he digs his hand into the pile of food and piles it into his mouth. But by the time he’s halfway done, the lump still hasn’t gone away. Panic rises in his chest, and he falls to the floor, sitting in front of the porcelain toilet. Now, with two hands free, he piles the food into his mouth, hardly pausing to chew before swallowing. _52 missed calls._ Once he finishes the plate, and his stomach is so full it feels as though it will explode any minute, he climbs up to his knees. With a shaking hand, he sticks two fingers into his throat, causing the vomit to immediately slide back up and he heaves into the toilet. Instead of falling back, the lump in his throat slips out, finally breaking free.

One, two, three tears fall down his cheeks and drip onto the shiny white of the toilet. Then it’s a stream, and he can’t stop the choking and the heaving. The slight red is back, reminding him of why he’s doing this. Because he’s not good enough. He’s a fag. His dad is lying the casket down the hall because he killed him. Cas won’t get a poodle in SoHo and Dean won’t be able to stop him the next time he gets his hands on whatever drug he can find and goes too far.

He called him 52 times.

With a heave, Dean watches as the stream sliding down his hand fades into a dark red. He shoves his fingers further in, nearly groaning at the force the vomit comes up, observing the red mixing with whatever he shoves down his throat in the toilet. Gasping for air, Dean comes up and forces himself to his feet. In the mirror his eyes zero in on the red staining his chin, dripping down to his shirt. He could do it again and let the red be drained out of him, draining the void until it’s no more.

His vision starts going blurry, making the vision in the mirror fade out and suddenly it’s the mirror girl with her pretty pink hair and sharp smile. She waves at him with a wink and he can’t stop himself from crying out, the taste in his mouth combing metallic with salt.

There’s a heavy knock on the door, frantic. “Dean, open the door. Come on. Don’t do this.” Sam. He called Sam 52 times. He’s nothing but a faggot.

Smirking, the mirror girl pushes her hand out of the glass and knocks it against his sternum, causing him to fall back and lose his balance. He grabs onto the edge of the sink to catch himself, just as he hears the knocking on the door become solid thuds. The red over his hands stains the pretty white of the sink, reminding him of the way it stained her hair. His vision is fading in and out, the bathroom tiles becoming scrambled together.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice echoes in his head, fading into static as the side of his head smacks against the floor and the dark red drips from his mouth. He clutches his stomach, because the void is asking for more and he doesn’t have enough to give. The door slams open, forcing a cold breeze to surround him.

“Oh my God, Dean? Dean what did you do? Jesus… Help! Somebody call for help!”

The last thing he feels is his brother’s hands wrapping around his shoulders, pulling his blood stained face into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading !!!! i love it when people comment so hmu


	16. Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS IS A FEW WEEKS LATE.
> 
> I started my summer homework late, and then school started, etc 
> 
> But it's here at least! Slow chapter.

The first time he wakes up he wonders if he’s in hell.

A sharp pain stabs at his abdomen, making him cry out. All he can see above him is a blurry white space, nearly blinding him. Everything is burning. Fire rests in his throat, crawling around to his stomach and nose. When he tries to sit up, hands hold down his arms and something is stabbing into his skin before things go dark again.

Is it disappointing that he’s alive?

 

The second time he wakes up, there’s other people next to him. A clock on the wall blurs into place, reading nearly 3 am. His body is still on fire, but the sharp pain is gone. He stirs in the bed, feeling the IV protruding from his wrist shift against the tape, making him groan. Next to him, a mop of brown hair presses further into the edge of his bed before drifting up slowly to reveal his brother. Sam’s eyes are still closed, but he stretches his arms above him for a moment.

“Dean? Are you awake?” He asks, slowly opening his eyes, wincing at the dim light. The skin under his eyes is dark purple, as though he’d hardly slept for days. His hair sticks out in various places, and Dean recognizes the once pressed suit he wore to the funeral hanging off of him, crooked.

“Yeah, I… What happened?” Dean asks, trying to sit up, but then the sharp pain in his abdomen is back and he winces. Sam blinks a few times before looking at him for a moment, his eyes resting on Dean’s face.

“You’re in the hospital. I… I’m sorry about what I said at the funeral. I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean to push you. I know that everything has been kind of fucked since Dad-“

“Sam, calm down,” Dean interrupts. “What’s going on?”

With a sigh, Sam continues. “You tore your stomach lining when you…” he looks down at his lap. “Anyway, the doctors had to go in and sew it back up.”

“Wait, _go in?_ I had surgery?” Dean tries to life his head to look down at himself but has no luck.

“It was the only way you wouldn’t bleed out. They said it was a good thing I found you when I did or you would’ve died in that bathroom. It’s pretty bad, I guess. Doctor Omundson came by. I’ve already signed you up for the outpatient program.”

It takes Dean a second before he understands what Sam means, but then he just sighs and presses his head deeper into his pillow. “So what’s gonna happen now?”

Sam shrugs and leans back in his chair. “That’s up to you, I guess. They already gave you a feeding tube and are trying to figure out which therapist to refer you to. Now all you can do is get better, I guess.”

“I’m not even sick, Sam.” Dean mutters, feeling a cold line against his cheek, presumably the feeding tube. “This is bullshit.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Dean, you almost died. You would’ve died. What if this happened when no one was around? You would’ve been dead on the floor somewhere for who knows how long.” Sam’s voice cracks, and he shuts his mouth and runs his hand through his hair. Dean doesn’t respond, just watches as his younger brother stands up from his seat. “Look, I need to get home and change… Jess is flying in and I have to pick her up.”

They stare at each other for a minute, Dean watching as Sam blinks back tears and sighs. Just before he leaves the room, Dean speaks up, making him stop in the doorway. “I have foundation on my dresser,” he says, “you can use it to cover your neck. Just don’t use too much powder or she’ll know.”

Sam frowns, but nods. “Thanks.”

 

The third time he wakes up to someone throwing up.

He immediately recognizes the head of dark hair resting just above the trashcan, struggling through the heaving. It’s funny to him, in a sick way, because throwing up got him here, didn’t it? “Cas? Is that you?”

It takes a second for the other man to recollect himself, but when he does, he wipes his mouth and sits back up. “Yes, Dean, I… I love you.”

Dean sighs and shifts in the bed, watching as the blind man’s calloused hand searches for his and grabs it. “I love you, too.”

“When your brother called the police I didn’t think I would get to say it again.” He squeezes Dean’s hand, like he usually does, but this time Dean doesn’t want him to let go.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, knowing the answer already.

“Yes,” Castiel lies, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bed, “My body is adjusting to sobriety rather slowly, however.”

It takes a second to register in Dean’s head before he realizes. “You’re in withdrawal?”

“Yes, I… I couldn’t leave this room. I couldn’t leave you.”

The lump in his throat it gone, it must have come out with his insides. But the void is still there, and it’s still hungry. It gnawing at Dean, begging for him to fill it with something, but he has nothing to give. “You’re really in withdrawal for me, Cas?”

With furrowed eyebrows, the blind man nods and repeats, “Yes.”

This time it’s Dean who tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand. “I’m sorry I freaked you out,” Dean says, trying to ignore the void that’s starving inside him. “I’m sorry about everything, Cas. About not kissing you, about leading you on for so long… I’m sorry I used you to make myself feel better. God… I’m sorry I’m so shitty.”

Next to him, Castiel wipes sweat from his forehead on the cover. “No, Dean, you don’t get to do that. Especially not here.” Dean opens his mouth to ask what, but the blind man cuts him off and continues. “You don’t get to blame yourself for this. For any of this. While you were out Sam told me about your father… about his beatings, about his neglect. Nothing that has happened is your fault, Dean. You are strong. Most people who experience that level of abuse, who get told their whole lives that they are nothing, would be dead by now. But you stayed alive. You dealt with it, for Sam, for me… It is time that you do something for yourself.”

It takes a minute, but Dean finally responds with a meek “okay,” ignoring the wetness on his face as he nods off once again.

 

The fourth time he wakes up, he expects to see Castiel, or his brother and his perfect fiancé. Instead there’s a group people at the end of his bed that he doesn’t recognize. They fade into his line of vision slowly, and Dean tilts his head at the confusion. “What the…” he mutters, watching as they become alert of his consciousness.

One of them smiles and sits up in his chair. “Guys, he’s awake,” the boy says, “We were just about to leave.”

“I wasn’t, not with his hot brother just down the hall.”

“Trade had a girlfriend with him, do you really think you’d have a chance?”

“I can get whoever I want eventually. Plus, that poor girl did not look happy.”

“What the fuck?” Dean spats, watching as the group stops bickering amongst each other and turns back to him. “Who the hell are you guys?”

“You don’t recognize us? Well, I guess you never really stick around long enough to untuck.”

The one on the end rolls his eyes and speaks over the accumulating voices of the group. “Jefferson it’s me, Electra. Kevin. We all came to visit you after we heard what happened.”

“Kevin?”

“You brought me to the diner the other night. Remember?”

Oh. Kevin. Dean purposely brought him so he wouldn’t purge. Right. “Oh, yeah, I… What the hell are you doing here? You guys don’t even know me.”

“If we get to watch you grind on old guys in fish nets, I think we know you pretty well,” one says, a smile on his face. Although Dean never really made the time to get to know the men in front of him, the familiarity is nice. “I’m Garth by the way, but you might know me as Jolene.”

“The one with the botched wigs,” Dean says, and the entire group bursts into laughter. Except Garth, of course. He takes in the look of the crowd, all seemingly normal men, as if they don’t dress up as women every night. He wonders if that’s how it is for him too.

“Anyway,” Garth continues, glaring at the others, “when we heard what happened, we all decided to visit you. For support. Drugs can be hard, we’ve all seen it, and-“

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, confusion laying over him. “Drugs?”

The men look at each other, before nodding nearly in unison. “Well, Crowley got a call,” Kevin says, his face clouding with worry, “After you passed out, he figured… Is it not drugs? I mean, not that you look like a drug addict, it’s just that you lost weight, and… Sorry.”

Dean scoffs and leans his head back, letting his eyes rest on the white ceiling. “No, it’s just… I’m not on drugs. Not anything addicting anyway. Jesus...” The tube feels cold against his cheek.

“Then what is it?” Garth blurts out, and Dean hears a few hushed words from the others. “I mean, if it’s okay to ask… Sorry, I kind of speak before I think.”

With a sigh, Dean repositions himself so he can face the other men again. His throat is burning, worse than usual, but the lump is gone and it feels strange. He’s not sure how he feels about the empty feeling. They’re all staring at him in curiosity, waiting for the answer. “I…” he starts, taking another breath. Sure, he’d admitted a million times that he’s fucked up, that there’s no hope for him, that he just needs to be alone, but he’d never actually said the _word_ out loud. “I’m bulimic,” he forces out, listening as the heart rate monitor starts increasing from is steady tempo.

It’s silent for a moment, Dean watching as the other men’s faces shift from curiosity to confusion to whatever they are now, he can’t tell. His head is pounding and the pain is his stomach is coming back. Saying the word out loud feels wrong, like he shouldn’t be saying it because it can’t be true. Men don’t have eating disorders. He’s just a pussy. Faggot. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

“Dean? Are you okay?” Kevin asks just as a nurse storms into the room, most likely reacting to Dean’s heart monitor. She clears the men out and starts checking his vitals, making sure nothing is wrong. After she clears everything and the beep starts to slowly go down, she pages Doctor Omundson.

“You’re okay, hun,” the nurse says, running her hand down his arms. “It was just the beginning of a panic attack. You’re okay now.” Dean doesn’t respond, just stares at her with pleading eyes until the bearded doctor comes in, clipboard in hand.

“Dean,” he says, nodding at the nurse to signal her departure. He sits down in the seat where Castiel was earlier that day. “Glad to see you awake. Not that I had any worries after the surgery. How are you?”

“There’s a fucking tube in my throat and everything hurts like a bitch.”

“Right, it is almost time for your next dose of pain killers.” The bearded man does something that Dean can see from the corner of his eye to one of the bags hooked up to his arm. “I wanted to talk to you before your brother or partner came back. I know that sometimes it’s hard to make decisions with loved ones in the room, because you start to think more about them than yourself.” Dean wants to argue, but his body is starting to go numb and it feels like too much effort.

“I know to you it probably seems that I don’t truly care about you, that you’re just another patient…” Doctor Omundson continues, putting his clipboard on his lap. “And you’re right, you are, but… I can tell already that you’re getting second thoughts about going outpatient. That’s alright, I’m not surprised. Not many people willingly go to treatment without a fight first.”

“I thought you were a doctor, not a therapist,” Dean says, his voice rough against his throat, like sandpaper.

Doctor Omundson sighs and leans back in the chair, causing it to squeak. “You’re right. I just wanted to make it clear to you, before you get a chance to back out, that it’s going to be rough. And that you’re going to hate it, you will never like it. But it is important for you to get better. I spoke with Castiel, and he very much reminds me of myself.” Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt. “A few years ago, I came home to my wife, Collette, collapsed on our bathroom floor. The kitchen was trashed; empty bags were strewn everywhere…” The man seems to go off into his own little world for a second, as if her face is flashing before his eyes. “She had a heart attack before she could purge. That could have been you, Dean.”

Dean looks away from the man, feeling his body starting to numb itself, his eyelids slowly shutting. He imagines Sam coming home, calling out his name, only to find his lifeless body hunched over the toilet. How Castiel would lose his voice from humming too much, how his fingers would bleed and the medicine cabinet would be emptied. “I don’t want that to be me,” Dean whispers before drifted off into a light slumber.

“Good,” the doctor says, but Dean’s already out.

 

_“You thought you could get rid of me?” The mirror girl asks, her pure white hair stained with blood. Dean watches as it drips down her chest, staining her satin dress into a dark red. “I’m everything to you,” she mutters, stepping forward, closer and close. Dean starts backing up, but his back is met with the cement wall, trapping him in front of her. He looks around, searching for a way out, but the room is dark._

_“You can’t get rid of me Dean. I am you.” The girl continues, grabbing onto his shirt collar and jerking him up. “I know you like to tell yourself that I’m just an illusion. That I’m just whatever your drugged up brain has conjured to give you a reason to hate yourself.” She brings her smooth, pale hands up to rest on his shoulders, sending shivers down his spine. “I am you, Dean. That feeling you get, deep inside you, the one bubbling to come out every time you smell the pizzeria or when you remember Castiel’s heavy body, eyes bleeding into your shirt? That’s me. Whenever you look at your brother, or your arms, or the picture of your mother on the nightstand? That’s me. It’s all me.” Dean wants to argue with her, yell at her to leave him alone, but her touch starts burning into his skin and suddenly he can’t talk anymore. He can’t breathe. “I’m who you wish you could be, Dean. Beautiful. In control. Pure. I don’t care about what’s in here,” she presses her palm against his chest, and suddenly everything’s on fire. “And neither do you.”_

_Everything is burning. He can feel his heart erupting into flames, dissolving through his flesh and turning his bones into a sweet ash to be scattered somewhere with no meaning to him. The fire climbs down and engulfs the room, dancing over the walls, making shapes along the cement. As quickly as it starts, it stops, leaving him cold against the cement._

_“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the mirror girl yells, but her gaze is no longer on him, her hands at her sides. “How could you do this to me?” her voice is different, echoing, becoming more and more faint with each word. “How could you not tell me?”_

“I was going to, Jess, I was. I was waiting until after I got back home. I wanted to do it right.”

Dean hears a deep breath, and then the unfamiliar voice picks up again, this time clearer. “Do it right? It isn’t a marriage proposal, Sam. You fucking cheated on me and didn’t say anything! I had to find out from a pair of underwear in your room! This is bullshit, and you know it.”

“God, Jess, please, honey, you need to calm down, and let me-“

“No. I will not calm down. I don’t want to see you right now, Sam. I need time to think, I… I just can’t see you right now. Get out.”

“Jess, I have to stay here-“

“Fine. Whatever.” Dean listens as the sound of heels clicking against the hard floor fade, followed by a slammed door.  The room is silent for a minute, and Dean’s eyes land on Sam’s waist pacing the front of the room.

“It was nice to meet her,” that’s Castiel’s voice.

“Seriously, Cas?” Sam spats before disappearing from Dean’s line of vision.

Dean hears a sigh from his side, and the bed sinks down, as if someone’s leaning on it. “I am sure that she will return. She just needs to accept the fact that you did wrong.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam groans, and Dean considers falling back asleep before they notice his eyes are open, but it’s too late. “Dean? Are you awake?”

Internally yelling at himself for being seen, Dean nods. “So that’s the amazing Jess, huh? Couldn’t see her face, is she as gorgeous in real life as Dad says she is in pictures?” In front of him, for a brief moment he sees the casket. “Said,” he corrects.

Sam sigs and buries his face in his hands. “Yeah, she’s great. I just… If I could go back, you know? I wouldn’t have… cheated so many times, I guess. I’m not even sure if we’re still engaged or not.”

Dean thinks back to the phone call he overheard from Sam’s room, dread filling his body, making him too heavy. He’d pushed it back, hoping it wasn’t real, but then he met the nurse. And the funeral director’s daughter. And heard Jess yelling.

He should say it.

Sam sighs again, shaking his head to himself, leaning back in his seat.

He really should say it.

“Sam, I… I heard you, when-“

The door swings open, stopping Dean mid-sentence, to reveal a short man in a robe and dress shoes, with eyes so glazed over that for a second Dean wonders if the man somehow found and smoked his entire stash. There’s a large coffee stain on the white dress shirt under the striped robe, a fashion choice that makes Dean want to throw up. If he could without dying. “Oh, good, you’re all here.” The man says, flashing a toothy smile at Sam, who looks like he just woke up from a yearlong nap. “My name is Chuck Shurley, and I’ll be Dean’s therapist during his time in our outpatient program.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and i also love when people comment so hmu.


	17. For a Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long school is kind of kicking my ass. it's also shorter, but it's something, so.

The room is dim, the blinds hardly open, bright lines dancing across the floor, over Dean’s feet. They remind him of nights spent alone in his room, an ice pack on his ribcage, hoping that if he stares out the window long enough he’ll get the courage to climb out and make himself disappear forever.

Oh, how he would love to disappear forever.

Across from him, Doctor Shurley, _no, please, call me Chuck!_ is stirring an obscene amount of milk into his coffee, turning the beverage into a light beige. “So,” the short man starts, not even bothering to look up at his newest patient. “How about we play a game?” Dean doesn’t move. “I’m gonna write down ten questions that I have from you on a piece of paper. Then, I’m gonna pick a number between one and ten and whichever one you guess I get to ask.”

Dean stares at the man for a second, analyzing the way his beard lines his face, before rolling his eyes and looking over to the door. “Is this how you treat all your adult patients?”

Doctor Shurley looks at Dean in surprise, as if it’s never occurred to him before that his method seems immature. “Of course. It doesn’t matter how old you are; nobody likes to talk. At least this way it’s kind of fun.” Dean scoffs and turns his head back around, his eyes coming to rest on the coffee mug in the therapist’s nimble hands.

“You think this is fun?” Dean spats, pointing at the tube taped to his cheek. “This fucking sucks. This isn’t some joke. I’m not something you can just play with and then brag to your coworkers about.” He’s about to get up, but stops himself when he sees the other man’s mouth curve into a smile. “What? You think this is funny?”

Chuck’s eyes widen and he quickly leans forward, spilling coffee on the table between them. “No, of course not,” he reassures, finally placing the mug down. With a sigh, he gets up and starts walking toward a tissue box on top of a cabinet. “In my time of being in the psychology business, I’ve just learned that you can only treat someone if they want to get help in the first place. It doesn’t matter if they’re on their death bed, some people just will not cooperate.” He walks back over and squats down, beginning to soak up the mess before is seeps into the carpet. “I was afraid that you would be that way. You don’t seem like the type of person to jump into recovery.”

It takes a moment to register, but then Dean sighs and leans back into his chair. He brings his fingers up to brush against the cold tube taped to his cheek. Chuck takes another gulp of his coffee, finishing it off, before sloppily wiping his sleeve over his mouth and continuing. “I wanted to see if you took this seriously. If you really wanted to recover, because otherwise there is no use in me trying. And I… I guess, I’m a little tired of trying to help people who don’t want help.”

Dean scoffs and looks away from the bearded man, resting his eyes on the door window. A nurse walks by in pink scrubs with a clipboard. “Great. I got a shrink who doesn’t like helping people.”

With a small groan, Chuck slaps his own forehead. “No, I mean, of course I love helping people. That’s why I’m in this line of work, Dean. It’s just that… people who don’t want to get help, don’t get help. And that’s that. But… you do want help, don’t you? Because, especially at this point, trying to deal with this by yourself is gonna be hard. It’s okay to have help Dean, professional or not. I just… okay? Do you understand?”

Trying his best to not roll his eyes, Dean nods. “I get it, Doctor Phil.”

Chuck’s eyes widen again and he sighs. “My name is Shurley. Doctor Shurley. You can call me Chuck. I told you before, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. It was just a joke, dude.”

Relief washes over the therapist’s face and he sinks back into his chair. Dean wonders if it would be inappropriate to walk out. “Okay, so now that we’re on the same page…” Chuck starts looking through the clipboard with all of Dean’s deepest, darkest secrets on it. Or maybe that’s just how it feels. He knew he’d been out for a few days, so who knows what Sam spilled to the doctor in the heat of the moment. “It says here that your father was admitted here… just a little over three weeks ago. But he… Oh.” Dean killed his father and now Chuck knows about it and he’s going to kick him out because he doesn’t deserve shit he’s shit he’ll always be shit and he’ll never amount to shit. “Well, why don’t you tell me about him? What was he like growing up?”

Dean stares at the doctor for a minute with a blank face, memories of broken bottles and late nights running through his head. “I don’t know,” he says, his own voice sounding distant. The itching feeling is back under his skin, but he doesn’t have anything to make him feel numb. _I didn’t raise my son to be a faggot._

“Dean? Now’s your chance to finally _talk_ about it. You don’t have to hide it, or push it down anymore. No one’s going to know except me, and you.” Chuck pleads, hoping that he won’t have to call a nurse to sedate his patient. Dean just stares at him, and Chuck can see his eyes growing wet. “Come on, Dean, it’s okay. Just let some of it out, you don’t have to tell me everything.”

“I don’t know, okay?” Dean spats, the tone of his voice surprising him. “He wasn’t even there most of the time anyway. He was either at the garage working or at the bar drinking. There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice lowers as he keeps talking, and the itching feeling has turned into burning.

“But what about when he was home, Dean. What did he do when he was home?” Chuck asks, and Dean flinches, shutting his eyes. He remembers what it felt like to get pushed into the wall, to feel the sharp pain in his head. Sam’s yells. How frantic his father was dialing Bobby, because he knew what would happen if they went to the hospital. Dean keeps his eyes shut, afraid that when he opens them, he’ll be laying alone in his bed, nursing a new black eye or wiping blood off his skin, and that everything, Cas, Jefferson, the funeral, will have all been in his head. Quietly, almost a whisper, fearing that he may be going too far, Chuck asks, “did he hit you, Dean?” Taking a deep breath, Dean nods.

He hears the scratching of a pen, and opens his eyes slowly, watching as the therapist writes something down on his clipboard. And that’s it. There’s no wide eyes of shock, no snickering because what kind of man let’s someone beat them up, no empathetic comforting. Just writing and silence. He looks down at his arms, half expecting to see them covered in bruises and cigarette burns, but they’re bare.

“It’s always the parents, you know,” Chuck says, finally looking up from his clipboard. “Every single patient I’ve ever had. It was always the parents. Whether it was that they were never there, or there too much. They never touched their kids, or touched them in the wrong way. Always watched them. Didn’t look at them at all. It’s always the parents. Even in your case,” Dean opens his mouth to object, because if it weren’t for his lack of control, he wouldn’t be here, but Chuck continues. “You blame yourself for this, don’t you? I want you to think about your father, about things he may have blamed you for, when you were younger, and I want you to-“

“No,” Dean interrupts, feeling the burning feeling coming back. “I can’t, no. He blamed me… but, it was my fault. It was my fault, okay? It’s my fault and that’s why he hates me and that’s why he hit me. I deserved it. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. Oh, my God, it’s my fault,” he mutters, more to himself than Chuck, who watches for a few seconds before interfering.

“What’s your fault, Dean? What did he blame you for?” Chuck seems slightly panicked, or maybe he’s having an ‘a-ha’ moment, or maybe he’s surprised because he didn’t think Dean would get this far. He can’t tell, he’s too busy trying not to picture her blood stained hair in his head.

“I wouldn’t stop crying,” Dean starts, his voice shaky, the burning taking over his entire body. “I wouldn’t just shut the fuck up, and my dad called her and she came home from work early because I wouldn’t stop fucking crying. It had snowed the week before and there was still ice on the street and I wouldn’t stop crying and she was going twenty over the speed limit because no one was around and then she hit the ice because I wouldn’t stop crying, and… and my mom died, and it’s all my fucking fault because I wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” He hadn’t noticed the tears spilling down his cheeks until one dripped onto his arm.

“Dean,” Chuck says, calmly, “it’s not your fault that there was ice on the road, or that your mother was speeding. Sometimes, bad things happen for no reason. It happens to everyone. I don’t know if you realize this, but I believe that most of your problems have stemmed from you blaming yourself for what happened. Amounted with your father’s treatment, and your arguments with your brother, you don’t feel in control of anything and want to punish yourself for it. When things became too much, you turned to food because you could control what you ate, so when even that became out of control, you resorted to purging to punish yourself for it.” Dean drowns the doctor out, his words becoming nothing but static. No one has ever told him that it wasn’t his fault before. He doesn’t understand the feeling in his chest, but the burning fades without food or drugs or sex for the first time.

“Well?” Chuck asks, but Dean hadn’t heard whatever he said. “Can you tell me about your brother?”

With a sigh, Dean looks away, staring down at his lap. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he mutters, feeling like a little kid in timeout.

“Okay,” Chuck says, his voice light, and he gets up to lead Dean back to his room.

 

He hears it before he sees it. Castiel’s fingers dance along the strings of his cello, gliding with ease. Dean doesn’t recognize the piece, but it still rings in his chest and fills up the room. The blind man’s skin looks even paler against the chestnut brown of the shell of the instrument, making Dean think of the stark white of the first Winter snowfall. Sam’s hunched down in a chair, and Dean wonders if he moved at all during the session.

Chuck puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder with a smile, but slowly retracts it when he feels the muscle tense under his fingers. “I’ll see you later, then,” he says, and the music stops immediately, silencing the room. Sam looks up, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, dark circles collecting under them. The therapist smiles quickly and turns around, walking out.

“How’d it go?” Sam asks, his voice hoarse. Dean shrugs, pushing away the images of her pink hair and the sound of the long beep. “Dean, come on. Talk to me. I want to know, you’re my brother and I love you, and I want you to get through this.”

Dean scoffs and sits back down on his bed, dragging the tall metal pole next to him. “Come on, Sam, you can’t get all melancholy ‘woe-is-me’ all of a sudden just because now you know about my problem.” Slowly, he lays back down, wincing at the sharp pain in his stomach. Sam jumps up to help, and fixes the pillows to be more comfortable for his older brother.

Once the pillows and blankets are properly arranged, Sam sits back down. Castiel is silent, his blank eyes facing toward the wall. His cello rests against his frame, the bow limp in his hand. Dean spots sweat caked on his face, and his lips are chapped. “Dean,” Sam interrupts his Dean’s observations. “I’ve always cared about you. I always will. How could you even think that I didn’t? How could I _let_ you think that?” He presses his forehead into his palms, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The buttons on his dress shirt are uneven. “This is… part of this whole… _disease,_ is because of Stanford, isn’t it?” Dean doesn’t answer, just watches as Sam looks up at him again, his eyes growing watery.

“I called you fifty-two times,” Dean says, almost a whisper, but loud enough for Sam to hear it.

“I know,” Sam mutters back, his gaze coming to rest on the side of Dean’s bed. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t take it back. It doesn’t matter how many times I apologize.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by an outburst from the side of the bed. “Will you two shut the fuck up?” Castiel narrows his eyebrows, but his head doesn’t turn away from the wall. Sam and Dean look at each other, eyes wide. “All you do is blame yourselves for everything. You blame yourselves for everything, and then when you realize that there’s no reason to, you try to blame it on each other.” Sam sighs, falling back into the cushion of the chair, breaking his gaze away from Dean. “Dean,” Castiel continues, this time turning his head to face him, “you are sick. You deal with your problems in an unhealthy way and now it’s caused consequences that hurt all of us, not just you. Stop blaming yourself for everything, you have a _disease._ I am so sick of hearing you put yourself down over and over and over.”

“Look, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean starts, but doesn’t get to continue before Cas in interrupting him again.

“Stop apologizing. You have done nothing wrong! For the love of God, Dean, none of this is your fault. And, Sam,” the blind man turns around and ends up facing a potted plant instead of the younger Winchester, but continues anyway, “Instead of wallowing in your self-pity about Jessica, or your brother, you need to start mending things. Or you may end up completely alone. And trust me, that is a state that you do not want to put yourself in.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam replies, but he still sinks into his chair and stares at the ground.

With a sigh, Castiel reaches down and fishes around for his cane. “You may not know this, but Gabriel is the only brother that I still talk to. Growing up, it was never expected for me to enter the family business, but my seclusion and lack of motivation drove between us.” He flips the cane, extending it, and stands up, careful of his cello. “Sometimes, it leaves me wondering, if I have nieces or nephews that I don’t know about, or who don’t know about me. I wonder, if I were to die, would my family even know?”

“Cas,” Dean starts, watching as the man starts slowly shuffling toward the door.

“I am just going to inquire with a nurse about pain medication. I feel that dropping the drugs cold turkey may have been a mistake,” he winces, and reaches out with the cane, finding the door. “I will be back. I hope by that time you and Sam will have worked things out by then.” And then he’s gone, disappearing from Dean’s sight.

“He’s certainly… something…” Sam says, shaking his head, but smiling.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Dean responds, not even trying to make eye contact. His stomach is starting to hurt, and he knows that a nurse will be in soon.

“I’m glad you have someone. Even if Cas doesn’t really seem to like me all that much, he really cares about you.”

“He likes you, Sam. Well, I think he does. He just doesn’t really know much about you is all, since you were too busy studying all the time to talk to him.”

“I’ll make sure he gets an invitation to the wedding, then,” Sam says. He opens his mouth to say more, but shuts it abruptly.

“So you and Jessica are still on?” Dean asks, knowing he’s treading in deep water. Sam frowns and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know. I hurt her pretty bad. I just couldn’t help myself. I just… I love her so much, but I wanted her to hate me so bad because… I don’t know. She’s too good for me. I don’t deserve her, especially not now.”

Dean remembers the phone call, Sam’s words ringing in his head. He knows he should say something. He has to say something. “Sam, I…” He doesn’t even notice Sam looking up, he doesn’t even notice the footsteps. “I heard you on the phone last week. I know you got someone pregnant.”

For a moment, it’s peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i adore it when people comment or ask questions.


	18. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO SORRY this took so long. I had a bunch of auditions, and schoolwork, and college stuff. But I'm back! 
> 
> Songs used are Pavane by Peter Warlock and Tell It To My Heart by Taylor Dayne

For a moment, Sam just stares at his brother, his gaze heavy, making Dean feel like he’s too heavy for the bed. “Why am I not surprised?” Sam’s eyes widen and he turns his head. Dean follows suit and his eyes come to rest on who he assumes is Jessica, judging by her shining blonde hair and eyes that resemble the sky just before sunrise. She’s wearing what Dean recognizes as the same jacket that Sam was wearing the night they fought. The last thing he remembered before downing an entire pack of beer and going through four seasons of America’s Next Top Model. “I guess I just have a habit of walking in at the wrong time. First I see you with that nurse, and now this?” Her voice cracks, and Dean watches as her eyes start to fill with tears.

“Jess, I-“ Sam starts, but is interrupted by the blonde girl.                                                                                             

“Shut up, Sam. You don’t deserve to explain yourself. I came here to talk to you about everything, but now I’m not so sure. I’m so sure about anything anymore, Sam. I… I think… I…”

“Jess, please, hear me out. I can’t just let you-“

“How long?” Jessica asks. The way her blonde hair curves over her shoulder reminds Dean of their mother. His brother doesn’t answer, staring at the edge of Dean’s bed where the blue sheets crinkle. “Sam, how long?”

Sighing, Sam looks up, his eyes wetter than before. “Since the Halloween party at the frat.” He mutters, just loud enough for Jessica to hear. Her face shifts, from the fallen, watery stupor to a sharp anger.

“The frat party? _Eight months ago?”_

“I wanted to tell you, Jess. I did. I was going to, after the first time, but… I don’t know,” Sam lowers his voice and sinks back into his chair, diverging his gaze from her. “I knew the consequences. I knew eventually this would happen, I… I kept doing it because I wanted you to find out.”

Jessica’s mouth drops, and Dean can feel the heat radiating off of her. He feels invisible, like he’s fading into the pale blue of the bed sheets. Disappearing. “You _wanted_ me to find out?” Jess yells, her voice breaking into a sob.

Sam gets up quickly, eager to pull her in, but stops himself from going any further. “You’re too good for me.” He says, staring at the ground, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I don’t deserve you, I… I’m a shitty person. I…” he turns his head, finally focusing in on Dean, his eyes wet, and suddenly Dean feels like he shouldn’t be there. The look on Sam’s face reminds him of the night he left, and he can’t do anything about it, because of the needles and the stitches and the liquid bags. He feels himself growing more and more helpless. “I just left my brother alone without warning and look what happened.”

The room is silent for a few seconds, aside from Jessica’s soft sniffling. “Sam,” her voice is quieter, monotone. “I think we need to talk somewhere privately, I… I didn’t want my first impression to your brother to be this.” She shakes her head and looks down at her shaking hands.

Dean and Sam look at each other for a few more seconds, and Dean has never felt so small. A month ago he thought he would never see his brother again. A week ago he thought after the funeral he would just up and leave again, pushing him aside again. Like he deserves, because if it weren’t for him, Sam wouldn’t have the guilt anyway.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at Dean up and down once more before motioning her out, and following, leaving Dean alone in the dim room for the first time since he woke up. He looks around for a minute, observing the fading, cliché pattern of the wallpaper up to the pictures of a young girl and a wheelchair bound old woman smiling next to the window. Outside, he watches traffic move slowly, the bright lights of the cars blinding. Slowly, he closes his eyes and drifts back into the dark.

 

_He’s back in the dark room. The blood remains on the floor, dry, cracking, reminding him of the image of the mirror girls bleeding dress and stained hair. But he’s alone, left with nothing but the flickering lamp and the pain in his knuckles. It’s strange, because he was so used to that feeling constantly crawling beneath his skin, the longing for emptiness constantly there, but it’s missing. It feels like part of him is missing and he doesn’t know what to do or how to deal with it._

_It’s scary._

_He watches the lamp flickering over and over for what seems to be hours, before he hears his name. Bare feet appear in front of him, shifting on the cold floor. Reluctantly, he looks up, his eyes running over a lengthy white dress, up to eyes that are all too familiar. The lump in his throat comes up suddenly, and he tries to talk but nothing comes out. Dean opens his mouth, eager to say something, anything, but instead just stares at her. The blood is absent from her hair, dissolving that memory from his mind._

_“Dean,” Mary says, a small smile lining her lips. She kneels down in front of him and reaches out to cup his cheek. He flinches away at first, not wanting her to feel the sharp cut of his jaw, but eventually leans into her touch. It’s cold, icy, like that night. “Oh, Dean, look at what you’ve done to yourself.” She pulls him into her chest and the smell of cigarettes and beer surrounds him. He’s unresponsive, letting his arms droop at his sides and his eyes stare into her gown. He knows it’s not really her. She’s never coming back. He’s told himself that a million times. “You’re so ill, Dean,” she squeezes his shoulders, the sharp blades of his bones pressing into her fingers, “so fragile. Empty.”_

_It almost feels like a compliment, but he knows better. She’s disappointed. He’s a disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he mutters into her dress. She shakes her head and he can feel it above him, her chin rubbing against the top of his head. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, “I’m supposed to be so much more, I need to be more than what I am but I can’t do it.”_

_“No,” she says, calm, leaning away from him so they make eye contact. “You can’t be sorry, Dean. You did nothing wrong. You were just trying to survive.” She smiles and everything starts hurting in his chest, as if someone is holding on to his heart and pulling, and it’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in years, one he learned to suppress every time his father smashed a broken bottle or his brother called out for their mother in his sleep. “You can’t blame yourself for anything. Especially not this.”_

_“But, I chose to do everything. I was the one who wasted all my money on shitty food, and the pot, and the beer, and I decided to stick two fingers down my throat. This is all my fault.” He doesn’t realize when his voice starts wavering._

_“Dean, you need to stop blaming yourself for everything,” his mother says, a small smile lining her lips. “You need to let other people carry this baggage with you. It’s too much.”_

_“But, I can’t rely on other people to-“_

_“Yes, you can. It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to be alone anymore. There are people waiting for you to wake up right now.”_

_The lump is crawling up again, threatening to force itself out, begging for Dean to let it out. “I don’t deserve it, Mom,” it’s been so long since he’s gotten to say that, it makes him want to never wake up again. That would be a dream. He presses his head back into her chest, taking in the scent of the detergent he hadn’t smelled in years. “I don’t deserve anyone to be there for me.”_

_Mary’s hand runs up and down the back of his head, the cold sending a chill down Dean’s neck. “Dean, you deserve the world, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head, before fading out into light._

There’s a low murmur of conversation when he wakes up again, the chill of Mary’s touch still on his neck. It takes a few moments for everything to focus again, but the bland hospital ceiling blurs into his vision, and everything comes flooding back. The feeding tube. The stitches. Doctor Shurley. Jessica Moore. He takes a deep breath, listening as the murmuring suddenly stops.

“Dean?” Low, raspy, like gravel. Cas. “Dean, are you awake?” He doesn’t answer.

“Jesus, Dean, look at yourself,” wavering, deep, the smell of gasoline.

Fuck.

“Bobby?” Dean questions, his voice coming out in a rough whisper, the burning in his throat more prominent than ever. The old man’s familiar beard and hat comes into focus above him, a stern, worried look on the man’s face.

“Dean,” the man exclaims, leaning in and resting a hand on Dean’s arm. He feels the bed dip and Bobby sits next to him, slowly, gently, as if with any wrong move he’ll break. He doesn’t like it. “Dean, ya’ idgit, what were you thinking? Doing that to yourself, thinking that was okay? You could’ve-“ he cuts himself off, taking a minute to breath. Dean listens, counting, in, and out, in, and out. “You had me scared shitless, kid.” He ruffles Dean’s hair and it reminds him of the first time he replaced a flat tire and Bobby made celebratory burgers. He would kill for one of Bobby’s burgers.

“Sorry, I,” he starts, but stops once he feels a drop of liquid running down his forearm and suddenly everything stops. There’s no sobs, no cries, just the silent tears and heavy breathing of the older man. He feels someone grab his hand, presumably Castiel, and squeezes. “I’m sorry Bobby,” it feels like a weight off his chest, as if someone who had been pressing his chest down finally let up.

“The only thing you should be sorry about is putting that damn piece of metal in your nose,” Bobby says, and Dean wants to laugh, but the faint pain in his abdomen makes him think twice. “I’m just glad you’re alive. When I heard what happened I came over here as fast as I could, but you were knocked out. Sam called me when I was working, so I called Benny to cover the shop while I came over here. He’s worried about you, you know. Dean, I’m sorry about-“

“Bobby,” Dean interrupts, surprised at how much the old man is talking. It’s almost as if he felt like he’d never get to say those things. Maybe he wouldn’t have if Sam hadn’t kicked open the bathroom door. “Bobby, it’s okay. I’m fine, alright? They gave me a shrink and everything.” Bobby opens his mouth to respond, but Dean cuts him off. “It’ll be fine, Bobby. I… I’m gonna be fine.” His mother’s voice rings in the back of his head, telling him to let Bobby in, but there’s something else there, telling him to push everyone away. Castiel’s hand squeezes his again, and he squeezes back. He turns his head slightly, the blind man coming into sight. “Cas, Baby, do you think you could give us a minute?”

Hesitantly, Castiel cooperates, but not without a frown. He puts a hand in front of him and finds his way out of the room, familiar with the position of the furniture. The door slams behind him. Dean feels bad for always pushing him away. He’s sick of doing it. It’s quiet for a few seconds, Dean feeling Bobby’s eyes scanning him up and down, resting on the IV and the feeding tube. “I just want to know why,” he says, his hand falling from Dean’s arm. The air feels cold.

“I don’t know,” Dean starts, but sees the doubt in Bobby’s expression immediately, knowing that this time he won’t take it. “I…” he starts again. “Sam left and I didn’t know how to be by myself, I guess. Drinking didn’t work.” He thinks back to all the empty bottles that scattered his house, how the first week without him he went through four six-packs and couldn’t feel his face for days. “Pot didn’t work.” He wants to laugh but the pain in his stomach tells him otherwise. “Do you know how much weed I smoked after that?” Bobby doesn’t laugh. “I ordered a pizza for the week and I ended up eating the whole thing in one night, alright? And then it happened again, and again, and next thing I knew I blew my budget on fucking cookies and hot wings. I gained like twenty pounds in a month and I felt worse. Until one day I got tired of it and stuck two fingers down my throat and then all of a sudden it was just fine that Sam was in California.”

Dean looks away from the older man, spotting Castiel’s silhouette through the blinds on the window. “I don’t know why I didn’t say this any sooner…” Bobby starts, and Dean reluctantly looks back over. “Maybe it’s ‘cause I felt bad for not taking you and Sam in when you were younger, but… after your discharged I want you to move in with me. I have the extra space, and your place is already-“

“I can’t,” Dean interrupts. Bobby’s hand is back on his forearm.

“Dean, you gotta let me help you through this. You have to let everyone-“

“It’s not that,” Dean spits out. He looks back at the window, back at Castiel’s shadowed body. “I need to get out of here, Bobby.” He turns his head back around to face the man. “I’m sick of fucking Kansas and all this bullshit and… I’m gonna move with Cas to New York. He got some gig with his music or something, and I can find work at an auto shop or something.”

He expects Bobby to object, to try to make him change his mind and stay, but he just smiles. “I’m happy for you, Dean. Just tell me the moving day and I’ll be there.” He leans forward and pulls Dean into a gentle hug, his beard rubbing against his cheek. The cold from his mother’s touch is gone.

“Yeah,” Dean says, wrapping an arm around Bobby’s back. “Hey, can you do me a favor? I need something from my place.”

 

“Warlock’s Pavane from the Capriol Suite was the first piece I ever performed. I was six at the time, and my mother hosted a business party for my father’s colleagues.” Castiel says, tightening his grip on Dean’s hand. Now that they were alone for once, the familiarity of their relationship was back. It had a strange tone to it, like they were old friends, and Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He still hasn’t told the blind man about his decision to move with him. “At that time I had a smaller cello, a gift from my grandparents. And after I performed, the audience clapped and started asking my mother about if I would be pursuing music in school, or if I would be taking up more instruments. It was the first time I heard someone talk about me that wasn’t about my disability, and I loved it. From then on I pursued Julliard and practiced for hours every day.” Dean smiles and squeezes back, imagining a little Castiel with his messy hair and permanent bitch face. “I believe it’s your turn to share. Tell me about your first performance.”

Dean wishes that Cas could see the smile on his face because it feels so unnatural. “Crowley had just hired me at the club and it was like 3 am, so the audience was either shitfaced or leaving anyway, but I was nervous as hell. I was dressed in my girlfriend’s tights and a dress I got from the thrift store. I looked like shit, now that I think about it. The song was _Tell It to My Heart,_ and I think I made like thirty bucks. But I’d do it again, I guess.” He sighs and leans into Castiel’s palm on his cheek, the touch warm, inviting. “Cas, let’s go to New York.”

The blind man smiles and puts both of his hands on Dean’s cheeks. “I love you, Dean.”

Bobby opens the door just as Dean’s about to respond, a black duffel bag around his shoulder. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He asks, and Dean shakes his head, feeling Castiel’s hands fall from his face. “I think Sam and Jess’ll be just fine, saw ‘em both passed out together on the couch.” Dean smiles. At least Sam has her. “I just grabbed whatever was in your room, I don’t know the difference between half this stuff.” Dean shrugs and watches as Bobby places the bag on the floor next to him. “What is this for, anyway?”

“I’m gonna turn myself into Mom,” Dean says, remembering his dream. “Can you hand me my phone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love it when people comment!! :)) thank you for reading


	19. Fighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for delay

“What are you doing this for, anyway?” Bobby asks, watching intently as Dean brushes the powder over his cheeks, limited by his position, but determined to get it done. It’s strange, watching the process of it. A month ago he would have laughed if someone told him that Dean dressed up as a woman for a living, but if it’s what he likes it’s what he likes.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, narrowing his eyebrows at the bad angle he has. He knows Bobby’s trying his best to hold up the mirror, but it’s small as it is, and he can’t seem to stop moving it. “All I know is that I’ve always been drawn to the blonde wigs, and the vintage clothes, and tried to cover everything and it… I’m done with that shit.” He can’t explain it. Even he doesn’t understand why he always had to look like her, had to be her. Looking in the mirror again, he sighs, knowing that the eyeliner is next. “Do you think you could hand me my phone; I need to make a call.”

 

When the door opens he expects it to be Kevin who, although reluctantly, agreed to come to the hospital to help Dean finish with his look. He didn’t understand it either, but was glad to hear that Dean had started to open up. But then instead of the nervous boy, his brother walks in, a hickey bright red on his collar bone.

“Oh, uh,” Sam starts, looking from Bobby to Dean to Cas. “Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything am I?”

“No,” Dean answers, trying his best to not stare at the mark that Jessica must have left or the smeared powder on his face.

Sam nods, narrowing his eyebrows in confusion before grabbing a seat next to Bobby. “So, what are you guys doing?”

Dean doesn’t answer at first, letting the silence in the room sit for a few seconds. “I’m, uh… I’m gonna try to do my makeup and make myself look like Mom, I guess…” He watches as his younger brother bites his lip and nods again, still confused.

“Is this something Doctor Shurley recommended or… You know. Is it, uh, therapeutic?” Sam asks, watching as Dean looks at the door once, then back at him.

“No, I mean, I don’t know. I just… I guess I’ve been having these weird dreams lately, and I think maybe I need to see myself like it. Like her,” Dean tries to explain without revealing too much because he knows that if he talks about the mirror girl then Sam is just going to get nervous. It’s all everyone seems to be since he passed out on the bathroom floor. Nervous. As if the doctor’s didn’t already save him, as if he already didn’t talk about stuff he never said out loud to Chuck, as if he already didn’t accept that he couldn’t eat his body weight in pizza and bring it back up ever again.

“Weird dreams,” Sam repeats, his tone blank, like he knows that he’s not going to hear about it again.

“Yeah,” Dean responds. It’s silent again for a few moments, aside from the soft sliding of Castiel’s feet against the floor. “So… I take it you and Jessica reconnected,” Dean continues.

Sam’s expression lights up, exposing his worried puppy look for only a second. “Yeah, we talked and worked things out… the wedding’s off. She was calling her parents when I left. She wants me to see a therapist when we get back to Palo Alto about… you know. And I talked to Ruby, and we’re gonna work things out with child support and stuff when we get back too. Everything’s alright, at least for right now.” He smiles, but Dean sees that it’s fake. Knowing his brother, every night spent without Jessica, every lipstick mark and soft kiss and strand of hair left on the bed that wasn’t hers is gnawing at him from the inside out. He just hopes that Sam won’t break and lose control like he did.

The door opens and Kevin sticks his head in, eyes tired and purple from presumably a night at the club in Dean’s place. Without his bright lipstick and long false eyelashes, he looks so young, so pure, just a kid. Dean wonders if the creepy business men who always leave a lingering palm on his ass and stick their money in his waistband know how old he is. “Oh, uh, hi,” Kevin starts, closing the door gently behind him. “I didn’t think there would be so many people here.” He smiles forcefully at Sam and Bobby, before walking to the other side of Dean’s bed. “So, uh, what exactly do you want me to do?”

It takes Dean a moment to think about how to phrase it. “I just need you to do my makeup. Not anything too, uh, extreme though, alright?”

Kevin shrugs and starts digging through the bag on the bedside table, pulling out more shades of powder and a brush. “Sure, I guess. Whatever you want,” and he gets to work.

 

Sam and Bobby watch intently as Kevin works his way through the different shades and stages, using a variety of brushes and pencils. Dean doesn’t let him use eyeliner, but it’s almost painful watching him stack on false eyelashes. It isn’t until Doctor Omundson comes in that the process is interrupted. He doesn’t act phased at the sight at all, surprising to Dean and Sam. Castiel had fallen asleep with his head on the edge of Dean’s bed as soon as the contouring process had started, most likely exhausted from not sleeping the entire time Dean was out.

“Good afternoon,” the doctor says, nodding to everyone. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I would like to have a word with Mr. Singer and Sam, if you don’t mind.”

Bobby shrugs and gets up, followed by Sam. “It’s not we’re doin’ anything important right now anyway,” Bobby says. The door shuts quietly behind them.

The doctor waits a moment before speaking, giving both men a look. “After deliberating with Chuck, or, Doctor Shurley, we’ve come to a diagnosis for Dean. I wanted to tell you before putting in in his record, seeing as you two seem to be the only form of familial ties he has left.” Sam and Bobby both nod, waiting. “To begin, aside from the injuries he sustained at the funeral, his esophagus is inflamed, which lines up with symptoms of too much stomach acid coming up, he has multiple cavities, most likely from immense amounts of junk food and acid rotting the tooth enamel. These are all the basic symptoms of severe bulimia nervosa, which you are both already aware of.”

“Jesus,” Bobby mutters. “I knew he’d take it out on himself after Sam left, but I didn’t think it’d get this bad.”

Sam shifts his weight from side to side, looking at the ground. He thinks about the screaming match they had before he left, how he packed everything overnight and was on a plane before Dean was even up again. “This is all my fault,” he mutters, mostly to himself but loud enough that the doctor and Bobby can hear it. Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Sam,” Doctor Omundson says. “When my wife, Collette, was suffering from the same thing I thought to blame myself as well, but it’s never just one thing. Which brings me to my next point.” Sam looks back up hesitantly, staring at the desk behind the bearded man. “After his first session, Doctor Shurley was able to get through to him a little bit, about his relationship with his father. He already has a few accounts of ‘accidents’ on his record, scar tissue scattered around his body, healed fracture ribs, all presumably from his abusive father. Does that sound about right, Sam?”

Bobby’s hand clenches on Sam’s shoulder. “Yeah,” the younger Winchester forces out, trying his best to block out the flashbacks of the nights where he could hear everything; the screams, the slurs, the glass breaking against the wall… Dean coming to lay down next to him in the bed, acting like there wouldn’t be new bruises on his skin in the morning. How the one time John did touch Sam, Dean almost died for it.

“Doctor Shurley’s diagnoses, and one of the main reasons Dean has developed an eating disorder, is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In his head, it’s easy to go back to times of trauma and start to feel overwhelmed, which leads to the destructive behavior. Most victims of abuse tend to blame themselves for their parents lashing out, and Dean is one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen.” Sam and Bobby look at each other, both thinking back to every time Dean said that it was nothing, and they pretended to believe them. “Among this diagnoses, Doctor Shurley has also listed severe depression, which lines up with Dean’s lack of self-worth.”

It’s silent for a few moments, besides a phone ringing at the nurses desk, before Bobby speaks up. “So what’s your plan here then? Hold him here until he can manage himself again? It sounds to me like the boy is gonna need hours of counseling and therapy sessions if he’s ever gonna function like a normal person.”

“Not exactly,” Doctor Omundson elaborates. “His treatment is going to need multiple sessions with Doctor Shurley alone a week, not to mention family sessions at least every two weeks, group therapy with other people struggling with the same issues, a nutritionist making him meal plans… this is a lengthy process, but I’m afraid that our outpatient program may not even be enough. In Topeka there’s an inpatient program that I can suggest to you, but I feel that a move that far could be detrimental in Dean’s treatment, considering that he’s never left Lawrence, and has familiarity here.”

Bobby makes a face, turning to Sam for a glance before facing the doctor again. “Well, that’s gonna be a problem, since he’s planning on moving out to New York with Castiel.”

Doctor Omundson frowns, before motioning in the direction of his office. “How about we continue this discussion with more privacy?”

 

“Try to follow my natural cheekbone shape instead of creating your own shape, it looks more natural that way, and it’s easier,” Dean says, feeling the brush glide across his cheek.

“I’ve never thought about that,” Kevin says, carefully applying the bronzer to Dean’s pale cheeks. It makes them look even more hollow, but not too bad in his eye. “I just kind of put together whatever I could, you know, I.. never put much thought into it. I started being Electra because I figured if I acted like I was into it enough, I could make enough money to go to college, to be a lawyer, and… if it hadn’t worked out, I’d probably be selling myself in an ally, so that’s a plus.” He blows off the brush and looks Dean over once more. “I think it’s done, if you want to see.”

“No,” Dean blurts out, surprising even himself. “I… I just want to wait a few minutes, to let the powder set. Uh, I…” he remembers the dream, the cold of his mother’s hand on his neck. He hears the heart monitor start picking up, and Kevin tensing above him.

“Are you afraid?” Kevin asks, warily. “That you’ll look too much like her?” Dean looks up at him with narrowed eyebrows but doesn’t respond, his breathing heavy. “Uh, okay, or are you scared that you’ll see too much of her in you? I learned about this stuff in my high school psychology class…”

Sighing, Dean recomposes himself and listens to the heart monitor go back down. “You sound like my brother,” he says. “I just… I don’t know. I had this whole idea that maybe if I saw myself as my mom, that maybe I’d get over… That maybe I could finally stop seeing her as…” he drifts off, staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds. “Just give me the mirror.”

Hesitantly, Kevin grabs the mirror and hands it to Dean, watching intently, unknowing. Dean takes a deep breath and holds the mirror up to his face slowly. He examines the look for a minute, noticing how less drastic it is compared to what he usually does, that is hides less of what he actually looks like. His own face reminds him of what she looks like in all the pictures his dad hid in the garage, the ones taken before the accident. The way she was always smiling made him wonder, if she had never been rushing home that night, if she had never crashed, would his life had been any different?

He thinks back to one time when his father was wasted, and rambling on about whatever came across his mind when Dean was trying to put him to bed without Sam hearing. _“You look so much like her Dean; you know that? She had the same freckles and… and eyes, as you do. You have the same eyes._ ”

Kevin’s about to say something to pull Dean back to reality when the door opens, revealing a woman he’d never seen before carrying a tray of food. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “I was under the impression that visiting hours ended ten minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Kevin mutters, getting up. “Sorry, I just, uh…”

“My apologies,” Castiel says, speaking for the first time in half an hour. Kevin and Dean were sure that he was asleep, but with his sunglasses on it was impossible to tell. He was a mystery to Kevin. How quiet he was when there was other people in the room, how he hummed to himself when it was quiet, it was almost as if he was trained to be silent. “Kevin, would you care to take me to the cafeteria?”

“Oh, uh, no… yeah, let’s go, I guess,” Kevin stutters, watching as Castiel stands and grabs his cane before feeling his way out of the room. The woman with the tray has to step back to avoid being nailed with the cane.

After the door closes, leaving Dean alone with the woman, she begins talking. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to walk in on this, but I will admit, it’ll be a fun story to tell my daughter tonight.” She places the tray on the table next to Dean’s bed. “My name is Ellen Harvelle, I’ll be your nutritionist from here on out,” she holds out her hand and Dean shakes it hesitantly.

“I don’t need a nutritionist,” he says, “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can. And I’m sure you did that just find when you were binging and purging every day for the past year,” she says. Dean doesn’t answer, averting his eyes to the pictures on the wall. “I talked to Chuck before coming in here,” she says while picking the tray back up and holding it out to Dean. “I’m not gonna have to feed you myself am I? If you can take care of yourself, that is.”

Dean narrows his eyebrows in anger, then looks down at the tray she’s holding out. He takes it, holding it in place in front of him. It just soup, a small bowl, with a spoon next to it. “Chuck didn’t mention this,” he says.

Ellen pulls over a chair and sits down, crossing her arms. “The faster you start eating, the faster we can get that tube out of your throat,” she says. Dean looks at her for a second before taking a small spoonful and slowly bringing it up to his mouth. His hand shakes, and the liquid spills onto the tray before he can put it in his mouth. “I looked at your chart before coming in,” Ellen mentions. “BMI 17.3, damage to the esophagus, digestive system damage… But it doesn’t seem to be about body image, like many patients we’ve had.”

Dean looks at her for a second, then back down on the soup and suddenly he’s back on the bathroom floor, blood in his mouth and empty pizza boxes surrounding him, just for a few seconds. “I can’t eat this,” he says, putting down the spoon.

“Alright,” Ellen says, taking the tray from Dean and standing up. She walks over to the door and opens it, but before leaving, turns around and says one last thing: “welcome to recovery, Dean. Something tells me you’re gonna be a fighter.”

The door slams behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love it when people comment :))


	20. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading

They send Sam to break it to him. Maybe because they know that he doesn’t have it in him anymore to fight his brother, that the screaming match before Stanford, and the one before their dad died, and the bathroom scene had been breaking him piece by piece and he just couldn’t find himself to fight anymore. He tells Dean about everything. About the group therapy, the family therapy, Doctor Shurley’s plans and Doctor Harvelles five step plan and Doctor Omundson’s recommendations and he’s tired of hearing the word ‘doctor.’

He’s tired of everyone telling him what to do and it’s only been a week and he’s tired of staring at cold soup on a tray in front of him five times a day and he’s tired of getting empathetic stares from everyone because _poor Dean._ He can’t keep food down like a normal person. Poor Dean, he’s a grown man acting like a teenage girl. Poor Dean, his daddy beat him and now he’s made of glass.

The only thing he likes is when Castiel plays his cello and drowns out all the outside noise of the heart monitor beeping and Sam on the phone with Jessica and the constant conversation going on about him outside his room. He’s tempted to just lay there forever and wallow away while everyone moves around him, and it’s tiring.

His phone has been beeping with texts for the past hour, but he couldn’t bring himself to get it. He’d been cleared to do rounds around the floor to keep him moving a little bit, but not by himself, and always with the IV and the feeding tube. Sam and Bobby had left for something five minutes ago and Castiel was out with Gabriel, apparently settling his separation from his family. With a groan, Dean forces himself up and reaches for his phone, glancing at twenty messages from a group chat.

Most of the numbers are foreign except Kevin’s, who seems to be doing most of the talking. Dean glances at the messages, words like “raising money” and “tribute performance” sticking out to him. Great. Now he was getting pitied by people from work, who he didn’t even know. Someone types in a time, noting that 9 o’clock is when the “benefit” would be starting, sending all the tips to Dean’s recovery fund. It confused him how people who he only had one thing in common with would try too hard for him. He wasn’t worth the trouble.

He’s about to dial Kevin’s number and demand an explanation when Doctor Harvelle opens the door, this time empty handed. “It’s time for today’s therapy session, Dean. Can you get up by yourself?”

“I’m not that weak, you know,” Dean mutters, pulling himself up and out of the bed. The nutritionist raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise stays silent, and follows him down the hall to Doctor Shurley’s office. When he walks in the doorway his eyes immediately fall on Bobby and Sam, who sit together on the couch across from the therapist. “What the hell?”

“Dean, it’s great to see you, you’re looking better than yesterday,” Chuck says, a smile that Dean is sure is fake on his lips. “Welcome to the first session of family therapy.”

Dean’s eyes glance from Bobby, to Sam, and back to Chuck. “Fuck me,” he mutters, before taking his seat.

Bobby and Sam look at each other for a moment before Chuck starts the session. “Dean, you don’t need to worry about anything. This is just the first session that we have together, it will be more about simply opening up to each other, which seems to have been a problem among you all in the past. It’s important to remember that opening up to each other is vital to keep strong, healthy relationships. If you stay closed off all the time, then you will eventually get fed up with each other and make assumptions that aren’t true. Does that sound familiar?” All three men nod, and Dean catches himself glancing over to Sam, who stares coldly at the wall behind Chuck. “Bobby, why don’t you start us off with sharing how finding out about Dean’s eating disorder has made you feel.”

The older man leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. “I mean, I don’t really have much to say, besides the fact that at first I was kind of in denial, because growing up Dean didn’t seem like someone who would… develop one.”

Before Bobby can continue, Chuck intervenes, “Can you elaborate a little more on that? Do you think it was because he’s a boy?”

Bobby shakes his head, “’Course not…” he looks over at Dean. “It’s just, growing up I was kind of the one who had to clean up John’s messes, and I know that sometimes Dean would sacrifice his own wellbeing for Sam, which meant that he didn’t always get to eat three meals a day, so I figured that now that he makes money to get his own stuff, he wouldn’t waste it.”

“So, in your opinion, Dean has been wasting his money when he throws up his food?” Chuck clarifies, and the words make Dean’s blood start to boil. He knows that Sam and Bobby wouldn’t understand, and that he just has some pathetic ballerina’s disease. He’s so pathetic.

With another shake of his head, Bobby continues, “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just… Dean,” with hesitation Dean makes eye contact with the old man, “When you were younger, and you were keeping Sam safe and dealing with what John would do to you, you still had so much fight in you. There was always something there inside you, always something to fight for. Now it just seems like you’re giving up.”

Dean swallows and looks down at the floor, analyzing the different creases in the carpet. The room is silent for a minute, Bobby’s words sinking into the walls. He expects Chuck to chime in and move things along, but instead he hears Sam’s voice from the couch. “Dean, I know that I’ve apologized before and I’ll do it again,” Dean doesn’t look up, “I’m sorry about leaving for Stanford without a goodbye, and on bad terms, and I know that that’s part of the reason you started… you know. But it kills me hearing that you just gave up after I left, because I don’t want you to only think that I’m the reason you’re here. I want you to fight for yourself, and care about yourself because you _want_ to, not because you feel obligated to. And I… I just wish that you would open up to me more and stop trying to act like you’re some soldier, because you aren’t. That’s what Dad wanted, but what about what you want?”

There’s no answer for a few minutes, the silence settling over the room in waves. In Dean’s mind, he imagines his mother, her cold hands resting on the back of his neck. Then he imagines the way the blood tinged her hair and how Sam had cried for weeks and how beer lined the top shelf of the fridge after that. He thinks of the blur in his vision when his head hit the wall, and then way Sam’s voice sounded that night. He thinks of the light scarring around Castiel’s eyes from his own fingernails, the empty red bottle. He thinks of how disappointed Bobby was when he stormed out of the garage.

“I want you to fucking leave me alone,” Dean says, his tone calm. The other men look up from their feet, and the scratching of Chuck’s pen comes to life. “You act like if I just talk about it, that everything’s going to be just fine and you’ll go back to California with a fucking care package, marry your gorgeous girlfriend and raise two and a half kids. You act like if I decide to not puke my brains out that I’ll magically be okay, and it’ll be like none of this shit ever happened. Well guess what Sammy? It fucking happened. You went off to be a hot shot lawyer like you always wanted and like Dad always wanted and I can’t even eat a bowl of soup. I gained twenty pounds and got sick of it and finally figured out that if I shove two fingers down my throat it went away, and until Dad decided to drop dead and get you to come back to this shit town that’s all I did. Okay? All I’ve done the past year is stuff my face, and smoke weed, and get fucked by Cas.”

“Dean, you know how sorry I am for leaving, but I had to,” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“I know, and I don’t fucking care that you left,” Dean spats, shooting his brother a pained look, “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about how you want me to live up to some potential, live for myself, when I’m nothing, Sam. I have nothing to live up to, why don’t you get that?” Dean didn’t realize he was yelling until he looked at the floor and noticed he was standing.

“This is good, this is exactly the kind of thing you should be talking about,” Chuck chimes in, putting his clipboard in his lap with a relieved breath.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean responds, his voice calmer. Sam and Bobby look at each other, then back at Dean, who’s already on his way out. “There’s no way in hell I’m ever doing this shit again, got it?”

The door slams and after a minute of silence, the therapist speaks up, “this is normal for first sessions, so don’t worry,” he says, getting glares from Sam and Bobby.

 

Once he returns to his room, Dean’s eyes immediately fall on Castiel, who’s slouching in one of the chairs will his cello resting on his thigh. He almost smiles at him, until he spots familiar head of long hair sitting next to him. “Lisa?”

The woman sees Dean and her eyes go wide for a second before smiling and sitting up straight. “Dean, hi, I… when I heard about what happened at the funeral, I just felt like I had to see if you’re okay.” Dean raises an eyebrow and walks over to the bed, taking a seat in front of them. “I’m sorry for being so sudden, it’s just, Ben was asking about you-“

“Ben remembers me?” Dean asks, the image of Lisa’s jumpy, little son running around his feet whenever he would come over after work.

“Some stuff,” Lisa says, looking at the tube tapes to Dean’s face.

“Who is Ben?” Castiel asks, his voice rougher than usual. Dean wasn’t expecting him to bring anything up, since he usually kept his mouth shut around people he didn’t know.

“My son,” Lisa responds. Castiel narrows his eyebrows and turns his head down, tapping a pattern on his instrument. “Anyway, I know I mentioned this last week, but again Dean, I just wanted to apologize. I feel horrible for not trusting you when you told me about your… job. It just didn’t seem like something you would do, and…”

“Because I’m so ‘manly,’ right?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer.

“Well, yes,” Lisa responds, “You just seemed so distant from feminine things, and I had been cheated on before, so I was suspicious, and-“

“Dean is not distant from feminine things,” Castiel mutters, interrupting her, “He is _very_ fond of women’s underwear.” Dean almost chokes, and Lisa stares at him with a surprise expression. Thankfully, there’s more footsteps behind him, and Doctor Harvelle reveals herself with a tray of soup.

“Good afternoon Dean, I heard that your first round of group therapy went well,” She says, a fake smile on her face. She nods toward Lisa and Castiel, who are purposely ignoring each other. “Is today the day?” Dean doesn’t answer, instead listening to the tapping of Castiel’s fingers on the wood for a few seconds.

“If you take this out first,” Dean says, pointing to the feeding tube. He makes eye contact with her, and her smile is gone.

“If you don’t keep your promise I’ll have them put one directly into your stomach, understand?” She says, and he nods. “I’ll get the nurse, then.”

 

The soup feels like a crash of waves slapping against the back of his throat, drowning him. Lisa and Castiel keep the conversation up, talking about what colleges they went to, but Dean knows that they’re both listening for him to say something. By the time the bowl’s finished and he places it on the foot of the bed, he feels like he’s choking. It feels foreign, it burns him from the inside out, and it gnaws at him. The bathroom is right next to Lisa, with the door taken off the hinges.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel asks, and Dean feels his hand on his thigh, squeezing. He thinks about the night in his apartment, when he wore the robe and Madonna played from the speakers and Castiel’s touch made him feel warmer than anything else ever had.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, staring at the toilet right across from him. “Hey Lis?” He asks, and she looks at him right away, a solemn look on her face. “Will you stop telling Ben about me? Just, leave it alone, okay?”

Lisa gives him a confused look, but nods, “I guess I can, if he asks… Dean, are you okay?” Her voice is the same tone as it was when she called him into her room to ask about the bra.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, could you go find a nurse for me? I think I’m having a hard time with the soup.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the toilet.

“Um, sure, of course. I’ll be right back.” Lisa says, slowly walking out. As soon as the door gently shuts, Dean stumbles up and heads straight for the bathroom.

“Dean, stop it,” he can hear Castiel’s voice behind him, getting closer. “Dean,” The feeling of his fingers in his throat feels too natural, and the sound of the liquid hitting the toilet water makes his head pound. “Dean, please,”

“It’s too late, Cas,” Dean says, his voice rough. He wipes his hand off on his t-shirt and looks at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes resting on the purple bags under them. “It’s… I’m fine, alright?”

“Dean, Lisa will be here soon with a nurse, and we can handle this,” Castiel pleads, and his hands squeeze Dean’s bicep.

“I know, which means we have to move fast,” Dean says, watching as the lights blur in and out of his vision. He stumbles over and grabs Sam’s jacket, pulling it on over his head. It swallows him up, falling well below his hips, but he doesn’t care. He would prefer to hide, anyway.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel’s voice sounds far away.

 

Sam does three rounds around the floor before getting the courage to confront Dean in his room about the therapy session. Visiting hours would end in ten minutes, and he has a lot to cover. Chuck had encouraged him to give Dean a few days, but he couldn’t bring himself to wait that long. Just as he’s about to open the door, he hears yelling from down the hall.

“What do you mean he got out? Are you kidding me, it’s your job to stand at the goddamn desk and wait until someone needs their bed changed!”

“I do a lot more than that and you know it. He wasn’t in scrubs, he blends in too easily,”

Doctor Omundson storms over, his white coat blowing behind him. “Sam,” he says, out of breath. “You haven’t seen your brother, have you?”

Shaking his head, Sam opens his mouth to respond but gets cut off by the bearded doctor.

“He’s been missing for almost an hour, and no one has seen him anywhere around the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love it when people comment. 
> 
> there will probably be one more chapter, and then an epilogue.


	21. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this took so long i was just so busy with school work and music stuff

Castiel’s hand is shaking in his, his grip tight enough that Dean knows it will bruise. He’s been humming ever since they started walking out of the hospital. Dean felt nervous walking past the nurse’s desk, but after that no one payed much attention to them. Gabriel was meeting them at the pizza place down the street from the hospital, with whatever drugs he has on him. “Dean, where is Gabriel taking us?” Castiel asks, his hand squeezing even tighter.

“The bar,” Dean responds, “the guys planned some kind of fundraiser for me or something, I guess. I figured I might as well go.” Maybe he could use the money to catch a ride out of town and never come back. Never see or hear anyone ever again, and just keep going until he’s nothing.

“We should go back to the hospital, Dean. You’re sick.” Castiel says, his tone soft, barely heard. “I should have never let you go, I should have yelled, or-“

“It’s fine Cas, I’m fine… I’ll be fine,” Dean pleads. The word makes his chest ache. How many times in his life has he lied with that word? _Don’t worry about Mom, Sam, she’ll be fine._ Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it. Dean puts his hand on the back of his head and pulls him in tight, feeling his forehead rest on top of his shoulder. He sees Gabriel’s car pull up in the corner of his eye, the lights nearly blinding him. Dean sighs and leads Cas into the back seat, cringing at the prominent smell of marijuana and whatever else has been soaked into the seats.

“Dean-o, Cassie, good to see you! How has the hospital been treating you?” Gabriel doesn’t receive an answer. With a shrug, he starts to drive out of the parking lot. “So… I have some powder in the glove box, if you’re interested.” Dean shakes his head and stares out the window.

“Dean, get me it,” Castiel mumbles, curling his head into his boyfriend’s chest.

“What?” Dean exclaims, “Cas, man, you can’t be serious. You just got out of the hospital, and-“

“So did you,” Castiel says. “Stop acting like you’re some know-it-all about what I should and shouldn’t do. Your addiction is just as bad as mine.”

“Never thought I’d be tossing drugs back to you and a boyfriend, Cassie, but there’s a first for everything,” Gabriel says, tossing back a small bag of white powder. “I wonder what Mom would think of this whole scene. She’d flip shit.”

Dean grabs the bag and holds it in a tight fist, feeling Castiel reach around for it next to him. “Dean, give it to me,” the blind man pleads, grabbing Dean’s hand with both of his. “Dean, please,”

“Cas, no,” Dean says sternly, pulling his head away. “I can’t watch you do this. You’ll hurt yourself, or-“

“You act like I didn’t have to listen to you vomit every day. I knew what was going on the whole time, Dean, and I didn’t say anything once. I told myself that maybe I was wrong, that maybe you just had food poisoning or the stomach flu… but it was every single day, Dean. You did it every single day and I didn’t say anything until we were sitting in that damn doctor’s office because your dad was going to die.”

Dean feels Castiel sit up and lean away from him, crossing his arms. The car is silent, except for the faint sound of music playing from the radio. Dean clenches the bag in his fist. Suddenly, the car slams to a stop on the side of the road, sending them both flying forward. “What the fuck?” Dean yells.

“Dean,” Cas exclaims, reaching over and feeling around Dean’s midsection. “Are you okay? Did your stitches open? Gabriel, what the hell?”

To their surprise, Castiel’s brother turns around, his face illuminated by the honking cars going around them. “I’ve had it with you two,” he yells, leaving them both speechless. “All this ‘woe-is-me everything’s my fault’ bullshit is so stupid. So what if you never said anything about Dean shoving two fingers down his throat, Cas? It’s pretty obvious he would’ve just tried to push you away anyway. Who cares if you never said anything about Castiel’s drug use? I’m the one who gave them to him in the first place. Some older brother I am. Suck it up and forgive yourselves, Jesus Christ. I can’t wait for you both to be fucking in some high-end apartment in New York so I don’t have to hear this shit.” Without waiting for a response, Gabriel reaches forward, grabbing the small bag from where it had fallen into Dean’s lap, and turns around, putting the car in drive.

He turns up the radio to blast the speakers, Kanye’s West’s voice echoing off the walls. Dean wants to laugh, thinking about how Gabriel had just been the most serious he’d ever seen him, but managed to just go back to being his disruptive self. He takes a deep breath and turns to Cas, who’s facing the window next to him. “Cas, do you remember the first time we slept together?” The blind man giggles and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder. “How we got so high that I’m pretty sure you just fucked my legs?” They both laugh this time, Castiel covering his face with his hands.

He keeps them there, maybe trying to hide from Dean, or maybe trying to make himself invisible. Dean wonders how he could claim to love him so much when he doesn’t even know what he looks like. “Dean,” Castiel says, in a whisper he can barely hear over the music, “are you really leaving with me?”

Sighing, Dean curls into Castiel’s touch. “Yeah, Cas.”

 

The club is packed with the same groups as it usually is, and when they arrive someone who Dean recognizes but can’t name is on the stage lip syncing to an old Britney Spears song. They grab a seat near the bar, and Dean realizes that he’s never actually sat and watched a show here. At first he only did for some extra cash, to be able to afford the weed and the rent. But then he found himself putting more money toward it, saving up to buy a new highlighter or looking up tutorials on how to make butt padding. It didn’t occur to him until now that he could have hobbies, passions, that weren’t self-destructive. He was actually going to miss this little gay bar.

“You know, if you wanted, we could take a quick trip to my car…” he hears Gabriel say to someone who he’s not sure the older Novak knows isn’t a woman. Next to him, Castiel taps his fingers on the metal table in time with the music. He never thought of Cas a Britney guy. There are a lot of things he never thought Cas to be, but maybe when they get to New York he’ll have time to learn.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean says, but his voice is drowned out by the music. The blind man links his hand with Dean’s softly, and he can hear his pulse in time with the music.

“One sec, little darling,” Gabriel shouts over the music at the girl, then pulls his phone out. “Hello? How’d it take you this long to guess? He’s fine… Crowley’s… see you soon, Sasquatch!”

The pulse quickens.

 

Sam slams his phone on the table in front of him, startling Bobby and the doctor. “I found him, he’s at the gay bar with Cas and his brother,” he says, standing up and grabbing his keys. When Bobby and Doctor Omundson don’t move, Sam gives them a dirty look. “Aren’t you coming with me?” he asks. “If we don’t get there soon, Dean could be dead before we get to him.”

Bobby gives him a pained look, but still doesn’t move. “Look, Sam, we’re not so sure that barging in there and forcing him to come back is the best idea. You can just keep trying to force Dean to recover when he doesn’t want to. It’s a lost cause.”

Baffled, Sam steps back from the table. “’Lost cause?’ Are you kidding me Bobby? You just want to sit and watch Dean continuously destroy himself without doing anything about it?”

Shaking his head, Bobby stands up to meet Sam’s gaze. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I don’t want to give up on him, Sam. I’m just saying that if he doesn’t want to be helped… there’s nothing we can do to change that. He’s gone his whole life thinking no one cared about him. That’s years of issues that we haven’t even scratched the surface of. It’s not as easy as you want it to be.”

“I know it’s not easy, Bobby,” Sam pleads, “But he’s my brother and I need to be there for him, whether he likes it or not. He’ll come around. He cares. I know he cares.”

Before Bobby can say anything, the doctor speeds up, seeming more distant than before. “I went through the same process with Collette… Begging her to apply herself, waiting for her to want to get better… And it’s not easy. It didn’t happen until… Until we went to court, and I became legally in charge of her. After that she had no choice but to go to therapy. Sam… After today… I believe it would be wise for you to do the same. If you can prove to a judge that Dean is incapable of taking care of himself, they’ll sign him off to you, and you can make him do whatever you want.”

Doctor Omundson is met with silence for a moment, Sam pondering what he just said. Bobby stares at him, dumbfounded, before speaking, “Have you ever met Dean? There’s no way in hell he would agree to sign off his right to make the decision. Either he’s in it all the way, or it doesn’t happen at all.”

Sam shakes his head, dropping his keys back on the table. “I’ve heard about this in class, Bobby. If Dean won’t agree… then…”

“You can’t possibly be thinking about taking your own brother to court,” Bobby exclaims, giving Sam a glare. “Sam, you have to let him make the choice for himself. Otherwise it’s no use, he’ll just get worse. This whole eating disorder thing is because he didn’t have any control before, right Doctor?”

The doctor nods, still distant. “Collette… That’s what she wanted, too. Control. It’s amazing how it seems so simple to us, like it just comes naturally… But what people do to obtain, that’s the interesting part. From the day I met her, Collette always had something she was trying to control… once I took that away from her… she hadn’t talked to me for three months when she died. But, Sam… Dean still has time. Are you willing to sacrifice his trust for you to help him get better? It’s a big responsibility.”

Reluctantly, Sam nods his head. Bobby gives him an angry look, but keeps his mouth shut. “If it means that Dean will get better… then I’ll do whatever I can.”

 

The bathroom is just as he remembers it from purging sessions before a performance. How he wishes it could be silent. Dean can’t even hear himself think over the pulsing beat of Selena’s voice raging from the stage just outside the door, or the couple’s grunts from behind the stall door behind him. One of them cries out just as Dean finishes splashing water on his face, making him grimace. The water washes down his face in plump drops, tasting salty from the layers of sweat he forgot was there. He has limited time to get out of the building, to escape from Sam’s worried speech and Bobby’s pleading lecture. He wonders how many of those he’s gotten over the years.

In the mirror, he watches as his eyes bounce back and forth from the dark purple overtone they are not to her bright, summer gaze. It’s blurry, but he can see it. He wishes that he could be more like her. Castiel is waiting for him at the table in the bar, probably drowning whatever glass of shit Gabriel suggested for him. In New York, Dean’s going to make sure that every night the blind man drinks expensive champagne or wine, or something more worthy of his value.

Behind him, the stall opens, revealing a dissembled Kevin, with a man at least forty years older than him sitting on the toilet seat with his pants down to his knees. “Dean?” Kevin asks, a surprise look on his face. Dean decides to not mention the fifty dollars hanging out of the younger boy’s waistband. So does Kevin, apparently, because he wraps his arms around Dean’s shivering shoulders and pulls him in for a tight, one-sided hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. Sorry if our group chat got a little cluttered, I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother.”

The man in the stall stands and starts pulling his pants up, letting out a low grunt that sends chills down Dean’s spine. “Uh… yeah, it’s… It’s really great… thanks for trying, you know?” Kevin smiles and readjusts his clothing. The man behind them shuffles out of the room, side-eyeing Dean as he goes.

“We had to, you’re like our sister.” Kevin says. “Well, I should go back out there and make sure everything’s going okay… I’ll see you tomorrow, though.” He gives Dean one last squeeze and leaves him alone in the room. Every drop that falls into the sink feels like a bomb. If he leaves, he might run into Sam, or Bobby, and he’ll be dragged back to the hospital. He knows he should go. He needs to go. He needs to get better.

Slowly, Dean makes his way out of the bathroom, immediately spotting Castiel, who still sits alone, tapping his hand in time with the music. Gabriel’s moved on to making out with the girl by the bar, and Dean still doesn’t know if he’s aware of the truth. Dean is careful not to be seen by anyone and he sneaks backstage. Some of the girls are taking off their makeup in the vanities, or talking among each other. Quickly, Dean makes his way to Crowley’s office and opens the door.

His boss is sitting with his feet on the desk, on the phone. When Dean shuts the door behind him, it startles him out of his conversation and he looks up. “I’ll call you back, Mother. Someone’s just come into my office.” He hangs up and places his phone on the desk. “Dean… You don’t look very well, why don’t you take a seat.”

“No,” Dean says, leaning against the door. The room tilts sideways for a second, but comes back into vision when he blinks. “I… I don’t want the money.”

Crowley takes his feet off the desk. “What do you mean you don’t want the money? I thought it was quite thoughtful for the others to want to donate their tips to you.”

“It is, but…” Dean takes a deep breath and thinks about the scratches on Kevin’s hips from the man in the stall. “Look, I gotta get out of here. I’m… I’m not coming back here, alright? So take my name off the window, and… Give the money to Kevin… or Electra, or whatever he goes by. He deserves it way more than I do.”

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley starts to stand up. “What do you mean you’re not coming back? Should I be concerned, Dean? You look like you’re going to drop dead any second.”

“No,” Dean exclaims, grabbing the door handle and opening it from behind him. “I’m fine, I’m just… Cas and I are getting out of Kansas. This isn’t the kind of shit I should be doing anyway…”

Crowley places his hands on his desk and leans on them. “Alright. I’ll give the money to Electra, but… Dean, no matter where you end up after this, don’t try to erase who you are. You’re damn good at what you do, don’t let it go to waste. I know how much the woman in you means to you. Don’t try to keep Jefferson out of your life. It’s part of who you are.”

Dean gives Crowley one last look, before turning around and softly shutting the door behind him. He quickly walks through the backroom and out the door, ignoring the queens who say his name when he walks by them.

 

Sam parks crooked in the parking lot, thinking about what the doctor said. He knew Dean would never forgive him if he took him to court. He didn’t want Dean to die thinking that Sam didn’t trust him, but truth be told, he didn’t. As soon as he flew in, he suspected that something was up with his brother. Bulimia wasn’t his first guess, but it all made sense now. He’d always wondered what their life would have been like had their mother survived. There’s no photo evidence of their father ever heavily drinking or being abusive before the accident. He wondered if Dean would have been happy and self-loving, or if he was destined to live with a deep loathing for himself.

Inside, the club isn’t too packed, and he immediately spots Castiel sitting alone at a table. “Cas?” He asks, getting the man’s attention.

“You aren’t Dean,” Castiel says, a confused look on his face. “Where is Dean?”

“I’ve been asking the same thing. It’s Sam,” he says, taking a seat next to the blind man. On the stage, a drag queen dances to a rap song he doesn’t recognize. “Where’s Dean?”

“He left to go to the bathroom about five songs ago… I figured he wouldn’t be purging, since he… he did at the hospital, before we left. I’m so sorry I let him leave, but I… I just couldn’t bare for him to be mad at me.”

Sam looks around again, spotting the bathroom. “I’m gonna go find him… who took you guys here?”

“My brother,” Castiel points in the direction behind him, and Sam sees a short guy practically humping one of the drag queens against the bar counter. The bartender watches them, not seeming to mind.

“Hey,” Sam raises his voice, grabbing the attention of the girl in Gabriel’s arms. She stops and looks up, nudging the blonde man’s shoulder and pointing behind him.

“What the… Oh, you’re Dean-o’s brother.” Gabriel says, lipstick smeared on the side of his mouth. “You just missed him… He went to the bathroom like half an hour ago or something like that… Figured he was snorting something or other.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “So where is he now? He just disappeared from the hospital, and… he needs to get back.”

Gabriel gives Sam a look, one of sympathy, maybe, or maybe he’s just too high. “I don’t know. He’s probably just tired of everyone nagging him. Maybe you should just let him go.”

“I can’t just ‘let him go.’ He’s sick. He needs help.” Sam can feel anger bubbling in his chest, the need for him to find Dean stronger than ever. He was used to his brother’s self-destructive behavior, but there was something different about this. The feeling in his chest is the same as it was that night when their father took it too far and Sam thought that Dean’s blood would never wash off of his hands.

“Look, I’ve seen this happen over and over… kind of comes with the job. No matter what it is- drugs, alcohol, whatever… people always choose addiction over other people. You might as well just suck it up and leave him alone.”

“Is that what you did with your brother?” Sam gestures to Castiel, who flinches, indicating that he was listening despite the loud blaring music from the performance. “The one who would’ve overdosed and died if Dean and I didn’t find him?” Gabriel doesn’t respond, just looks down. The girl pinned between him and counter awkward slides away, disappearing into the crowd around them.

“Uh, excuse me,” a voice comes from behind them. Sam turns around and sees one of the people from the bar who visited Dean at the hospital. “You’re Dean’s brother, right?” He nods, skeptical. “Uh… Crowley just told me he left a while ago, and, uh, I’m not sure where he went. But do you think you could give him this? It’s from his sisters.” The boy holds out an envelope with a small stack of money and a polaroid picture sticking out of the top.

Sam takes it hesitantly. “Thanks,” he feels like he’s going to vomit then and there. “I’ll make sure this gets to him.”

The boy smiles before saying his goodbyes and returning into the crowd. Sam peeks at the photo, recognizing it as an image of Madonna’s red dress from one of her videos. Upon a closer look, he sees Dean’s facial features, and recognizes it as a photo of his brother from when he must have been doing a show. He’s a lot more filled out in the picture, and seems like he’s genuinely having fun.

“Take Cas back to the apartment and see if Dean turns up there,” Sam says to Gabriel, who starts to protest, but sucks it up when Sam gives him a look. “I’ll text Bobby to hang out at his place to see if Dean goes there, and… and there’s one other place where he might be that I’ll check out.”

 

The cold evening air bites at his skin, the feeling not going away no matter how much he curls into himself. He hadn’t expected it to be so chilly, but he was grateful that there was something reminding him he was alive. It had been years since he’d been here. This time, his father’s gravestone was next to hers.

“Sorry it’s been so long, Mom,” Dean says, the only response a light gust of wind. The last time he was here was the day after Sam’s high school graduation. He wanted to show her his diploma, since Dean never got one. “I… I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do and now I don’t and I… I need your help, Mom.” His voice breaks, and he takes a deep breath.

He never got to cry.

After the accident, all he knew was that he had to make sure Sam was okay. He had to make sure their dad didn’t drink himself to death. He had to make sure that there was enough money to keep the house. He always had to worry about something. He was never just Dean. And when he was, he couldn’t stand it.

It takes a minute for him to register that the sudden warmth on his face is his own tears. “Jesus,” he mutters, trying to wipe them, but they just keep coming. “God, I wish it had been me,” he sputters, pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. His sobs just can’t stop. He never learned to stop them.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. “Dean?” Sam’s voice sounds like an echo in his head, like it was for so long. “Dean, thank God,” he exclaims, jogging up to his brother and falling to his knees beside him. His older brother’s skin is a faint purple, and the wetness on his cheeks reflects off the moonlight. “Dean, it’s me. I… I’ve been looking for you all day. We need to get you back to the hospital, okay?” When he receives no answer, just a glance, he continues. “Look… all day everyone’s been telling me to just give up, and leave you alone, but… Dean, I can’t. I won’t. No matter how much you fight me, no matter how much you tell me to leave, I won’t. Never again.”

Dean takes a deep breath, and looks at his brother, realizing that this is the first time he was the one who needed his brother. Or maybe he always needed Sam, and just didn’t accept it. It’s too late now. He looks over at Sam, his chest wavering, thinking about how he woke up one morning and all of Sam’s stuff was gone and he never got to say goodbye. He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

“Alright,” Dean says, his voice quiet, barely a tremor.

Sam seems startled by his reply. “What?”

“Alright,” Dean repeats. “I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want, just… I’m so tired of feeling like this, Sam. I’m so tired of feeling empty in my own body.”

Sam leans over so that their shoulders are touching, just like they used to when they were kids. “I’m tired of seeing you like this, too. Dean, I know a lot has happened, but… if you’re ready, I think it’s about time we be brothers again.”

 

The air doesn’t feel cold anymore.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!!! 
> 
> i've had so much fun writing this and playing around with my writing style and im so grateful that it has received praise
> 
> again, i love it when people leave comments so tell me what you think now that it's over. 
> 
> there will be an epilogue after this chapter, and then it's officially done!


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short little number to resolve some of the tensions and give this story one last goodbye

Dean sighs, his hand coming to rest on the doorknob to the small apartment. It had been a long day at work, and the hunger settling in his stomach is gnawing at him. The lunch Castiel packed for him is still half full, sitting in his bag, waiting to rot. He’s had a good week. Skype therapy with Doctor Shurley had been going so good that he gave him the clear to add cheese back into his diet. Normally, he would be happy, but the weight of seeing Sam again after nearly six months is pulling him down.

The door opens, the knob being pulled from his hand. Castiel stands in front of him, his hair disheveled as usual, a beard growing in. “I heard you breathing, I wasn’t sure if you were going to come in or not.” The blind man says, putting a hand out for Dean to grab. The warmth of his boyfriend’s hand reawakens his mind, and he follows him in eagerly. “You’re nervous,” Castiel says, shutting the door behind him. “Why? I’m sure Sam will be happy to see you.”

Castiel pulls Dean in closer to him, and they back up until his lower back is pressed up against the counter. Dean’s bag falls next to him, the lunch forgotten. He rests his chin on Castiel’s shoulder, taking in the faint smell of cigarette smoke and cinnamon. “What if he’s disappointed in me?” Dean asks, remembering how Doctor Shurley lectured him about communication, especially with his therapist halfway across the country.

“Dean, the last time he saw you, you were barely at a healthy BMI. You’ve made so much progress since then, I am sure he will be happy to see you.” Castiel releases Dean from his grasp, but their chests still press up against each other. “If it makes you feel any better, I ordered a small pie. Just cheese, if you can handle it. Tell me if you can’t and I’ll cancel the order.”

He hadn’t touched a pizza in months. Memories of bruised knees and swollen cheeks grace his mind, but he pushes them away as best as he can. He runs through every step Doctor Shurley gave him in his head, getting halfway through before he can answer. “Yeah… Yeah, maybe I can actually taste it this time.” He jokes, receiving a frown from Castiel. He didn’t like it when Dean joked about his disorder, but it made Dean feel light, like it was truly a thing of the past. “Seriously, Cas, I’m fine. It’s about time I actually start to enjoy myself here.”

Castiel smiles, reaches up to cup Dean’s face. It was nice, the feeling of Dean without the protruding bones reminding him of what went on behind closed doors. He hadn’t exactly filled out to what he was when they met, but the valleys of his ribs didn’t appear anymore and the life in his cheeks had come back. “You say that like last week you didn’t spend two hundred dollars on new makeup and… what do you call them?”

Dean laughs, bringing hands to rest on Castiel’s hips. “Mom jeans… I’m thinking that it’s time for Jefferson Starship to get to know the sun. You know, day drag. My manager thinks it’ll be kind of cool… Figured I’d try it.”

“Right,” Castiel says, smiling and kissing Dean tenderly, like turning the first page of a book. “I almost forgot, I have something to tell you…” Dean leans down and starts kissing his neck, over the marks already there from the night before. “I… I got a call, from that movie director, the indie one? He wants me to play for his soundtrack. Just me, no one else. Can you believe? A whole movie just accompanied by the cello. And I get to write it.”

“That’s great, Cas, can’t wait,” Dean says, sliding down to his boyfriend’s collar bone. They start backing up toward the bedroom, until Castiel’s back is against the wall next to the doorway. A picture falls to the floor, face down, startling both of them. “Shit,” Dean curses, hurrying to pick it up. Luckily, it isn’t fazed, still showing the picture of Sam’s daughter he sent them after she was born. Her eyes are the same as his brothers, reminding him of their childhood before the accident.

“Is it broken?” Castiel asks, worry in his tone.

“No, it’s just fine,” Dean says, hanging the photo back up on the nail. He looks back at Cas, the photo, and the hickeys. “Everything’s just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank all of you so much for reading. without the comments and people expressing to me how much they liked it, i would have never finished it.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's drag name is Jefferson Slutship, it just isn't stated in this chapter. Also, he isn't just a Madonna impersonator, it is just something he does a lot. There will be more drag that is more of his creation.
> 
> If you have a question, hit me up in the comments.


End file.
